


Do Not Forsake Me

by telemachus



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, BDSM, M/M, Not Happy, Not My Usual Ship, Really Angst, Valinor doesn't solve everything, glorfindel has issues, kind of anyway, not a nice story in many ways, not my usual stuff, some scenes are distressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-06
Updated: 2015-07-28
Packaged: 2018-03-16 15:48:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 32
Words: 39,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3493961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/telemachus/pseuds/telemachus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some elves die horribly and come back to Valinor remade and happy. Some don't die, and sail there, happily.</p><p>Some elves have issues.</p><p>(Definitely not Rising-Verse compliant.)</p><p>Warning: as this fic has developed, there are now scenes in it which might upset some. (To be honest, I don't think there is much that is worse than the first scene, but it depends on the reader.) I can't see a way of warning without putting the whole plot in the tags, so just - proceed with caution. I don't rate Mature lightly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the theme tune to High Noon.

Outlined against the sky, he towers above me on the hillside.

Another crack of the whip, and my dagger is gone, dropped, my wrist stinging.

Another and I am down on my knees, cradling my injured arm.

He rears above me, laughing, and this time the sting is on my back, my shoulders; again and again the lash falls and I cry out in shock, in pain.

In pleasure.

As though to stop him, to ward him off, even though we both know it is the last thing I want, we both know my ears are flushed, my cock hard, my breath coming fast from need, I raise both hands – and I do not know what I think I can do.

It does not matter.

He is too fast, too skilled.

The whip curls out once more, and this time – this time the tail wraps around my wrists, and holds them together as he laughs again.

Slowly he steps towards me, keeping the leash – for leash it now is – taut, forcing my hands up above my head, and then back, pulling my whole body off-balance so that I am kneeling, leaning back, straining to breathe, to stay upright.

I do not want to end this lying full length in the snow.

He stands very close, and leans down, flame in front of my face, watching my fear, my need – and I cannot see what he is thinking, cannot read his thoughts – cannot see his face, the light is so close to me.

“Fire and pain,” he says, and then, “you want it, you crave it, Laurefindel, do you not?”

I look away, I cannot bear to admit it by word, nor by the longing I know I cannot conceal, the secrets of my soul revealed in my eyes.

He laughs again,

“Glorfindel,” he says, “I know you, I know your needs, your desires – give in to me – submit and it will be sweet, it will be all you dream.”

I shudder.

He jerks the whip, and my arms are pulled back, my chest forward. Slowly, lovingly, he moves the flame down, and my naked skin is heated in the path it travels.

“Ah, Laurefindel,” he says again, “you look perfect.”

Hating myself for it, I clamp my teeth shut on the moan of pleasure I can feel rising in my throat, my desire for praise so strong, my need, my want, and – and oh, please, please, do not stop this, I think, please, I need it so.

The flame travels lower, and I know he is looking at the bulge in my leggings, the evidence of my arousal, and I know he is pleased.

“Yes,” he says, “almost perfect. I think a few – marks – would improve the view.”

Involuntarily, I gasp, the thought of marks on my skin sending sparks down my spine, making me ache with need, and want, and a desperate urgency that none should feel.

A forbidden pleasure.

Only he can give this to me, only he understands what I need.

The candle travels up my body once more, and then – ah Valar – then he tilts it, and the melted wax drops, slowly, carefully, onto me. This sting, this pain, this burn is – perfect – hot and tight and – and when there is no more to come, he leans forward, and so sweet, so sweet, his breath is cool, and gentle, and the pain goes – for a moment – and – ah it is good when it returns, when the cooling wax tightens.

“Very pretty,” he says, and then he jerks the whip once more – and my hands are free. The candle is cast aside, and two-handed, he brings the lash down again, and the bite of it together with the burns is – is ecstasy and freedom and – and I am on my knees here in the snow, crying out for more, and do not stop, and oh – oh – please. 

While it lasts, the pain, the lines on my skin, the fire, is all I can sense, all that I am is consumed, I am lost in the sensation, the need for more, and there is no shame, no fear – if this is the worst, then I am free, there is no need to be afraid, for there is only a sweet pleasure in it – no shame at falling, at failing when there is no time for thought, no thought left in me. I am only what he lets me be, only what he makes of me, all that I am is a point reacting to him, to what he does, and – and I cry out, nearing my peak, nearing the bliss, the completion that only he can offer, the cessation of all that I cannot bear, that I know will come when he overwhelms me completely.

But he pauses once too often, once too long; I reach up, before he can resume, and I pull the whip from his hand, and it too is thrown aside to lie unwanted, as I bring him down, for I am stronger by far than he.

“Need,” I say, “need you, now,” and he groans in acquiescence as I roll him onto his belly, “up on your knees,” I say, and he does, and I am fumbling with my laces, even as I can see he is doing the same, and then I am on him and in him, and moving and the pain of the burns is still there, and the lines of red from the blows, but it only makes this heat, this tightness, these cries from under me, better, and – and oh fuck the Valar.

Breathless, I slide off him, to sit foolishly in the snow, even as he slowly twists to look at me.

“Better?” he asks, and I nod.

“Thank you,” I say, “I – Erestor, I do not know how I would manage without you when the nightmares come.”

He shrugs, self-deprecating as ever,

“I am sure you would find a way,” he says, and then, something I cannot read in his tone, “I am not sure you would not be better to manage without. I worry you will be hurt – really hurt – one of these days. Each time you want it more, and take more before you stop it.”

I shake my head, my hair moving lightly, brushing across the stripes, the burns, and there is no pain – not real pain – not pain as I have known – for all his kindness, his goodness, for all his skill in these pleasures – and I have not asked where or when he learnt – he has no conception of the terror that haunts me, even as I answer,

“It is just – it has been a long while. He was not well last time things got bad – and so I could not come to you.”

But something in his face closes over, and I know I have overstepped. Erestor is not a friend, not a healer, not someone with whom I should discuss my beloved – yet I have no-one else to whom I can say this,

“He does not understand,” I sigh, looking away – perhaps it is not disloyalty if I do not look at him as I speak, “he thinks I am overreacting. Still.”

Erestor stands, brushes himself off, relaces his black – always black – leggings, and turns to walk away.

“Ecthelion is your lover, your vowed one,” he says, “I will give you this that he cannot, but do not draw me in to your problems, Glorfindel. You have no right to ask that of me.”

He walks away.

No right, I think, no right at all – save – that I for so long now have loved you. That were it possible, I begin to think I would change my vowing.

But I am an elf.

Ecthelion has done me no wrong.

He knows of this need in me – and he frees me to the release I need.

I cannot leave him, for his need is as great, his nightmares as bad – and it is my arms he needs sheltering him when he wakes.

And when I hold him, when I comfort him – sometimes – sometimes I can believe myself strong again, sometimes he makes me strong – and I remember what we once were – and I long to be that way again.

For all that part of me craves this – I fear it also. I fear the need in me – the emptiness inside – I fear that I might fall and be unable to crawl out – that this could become my life, were Erestor to love me.

Besides, I do not think Erestor even has a heart.

He certainly never shows it.


	2. Chapter 2

I make myself walk away, steadily, as though nothing is different. 

As though I am the one he sees, Erestor, cold, controlled, always dominant, always reserved, locked away.

As though there is no other Erestor.

No elf that had hoped – once – long ago it seems now, and far away, in a land where elves no more rule – that perhaps it was possible to learn to be different.

To laugh, gently, and for pleasure.

To hold, to touch, to smile.

To hum a lovesong, and understand the poets.

To wear all the colours of the rainbow, and find delight in the fussing with hair to which elves are so prone.

To meet another’s eye, and become breathless with a need for – for sweet whispers, and promises.

Instead, I learnt to hold myself proud and alone even at these moments.

I learnt to weep, and to hide the sorrow.

I learnt to act, to give what is needed, desired, and never to count the cost, never to ask when it is my turn to receive.

I learnt to whisper words of love only in my heart, that none may hear what should not be spoken.

I learnt that even heroes are flawed.

And I learnt that I am stronger than I knew.


	3. Chapter 3

Carefully I do not look at him as he walks through the door to our rooms.

Bad enough to know where he has been, what he has been doing, who he has been with – and why.

I will not ask him to face me with the guilt in his eyes.

“There is a bath run,” I say, eyes on my book, “and towels, and healing cream. And a clean nightshirt.”

Cover yourself, do not make me see the marks he leaves on you.

They will, I hope, be gone by morning.

Morning, when some servant will take away the clothes he wears now for laundering, and I will no longer need to carefully not see the blood on them, the stains of tears and – other things.

I hear the hiss as he lowers himself into the water, and the cuts sting – cuts or burns – or both – I do not want to know.

I close my eyes, I shut my mouth on the bitter words, I lean back that the tears not seep out and I wonder how did we come to this?

How did we fall so far from what we once were so proud to be?

Is it my fault, that I did not sail East with him?

Had I gone, would we have been stronger together? Would I have been able to keep him from this – this – whatever it is called?

Is it my fault that I let him sail?

Had I raged, wept, implored, acted as others might – but not me, never me, I am not one to behave so – might he have stayed with me – might we have learnt together how to be alive once more?

Is it my fault, my weakness, that I cannot do for him what this other does?

Do I fail him?

Do I fail him that I release him not? That I stay with him, side by side, as I dreamt of all those years apart?

Or that I do, that I keep him at my side, that I keep the whip, the fire from our love – is that the only reason he descends not further into this madness?

None can answer these questions.

It matters not.

I cannot change what is past.

I cannot release him, cannot bear to be alone again.

And I cannot be what he believes he needs.

I cannot even be what I once was, even as he is not as he was in those days. As so many here, here in this land that we were told was Blessed, we are not who we were, no longer are we young and hopeful, and, for all that we were forced to hide our love, joyous. Now we are – tired. Marked and scarred, inside and out by our lives, by our deaths. Yet – I love him still, and I try to believe that he does love me.

I hear him begin to dry himself, to curse as he puts on the cream that will heal his abused skin.

I do not go to him, do not appear to condone this – horror – with my care. I did at first – but – the sight of his dear body hurt so – I could not bear it – could not bear to face the other elf and my dislike of his “friend” shamed my love – but I cannot understand why my love chooses this.

I do not want to see.

I put down my book, I turn away in pretence of rest. 

He knows me too well – when he joins me, lying on his side, and I know he cannot lie another way, I know there will be no sweet loving tonight, and I grieve that now we have every night together, now that things are easier than once they were, the strictures of our city forgotten, now that we need not hide – there is this between us. He touches my hip gently, his hand lying still where once he would have grasped and pulled, and needed me so, and he says softly,

“I am sorry.”

Pretence abandoned, I reach for his hand, and answer him,

“I know,” I say, “but it gets worse. Where will this end? Do not answer me, but – think. There must be a better way. Surely,” I sigh, “Glorfindel, I love you, and I do not ask you to choose.”

Not yet.

I do not say the words, but I know he hears them, he knows me so well. 

Briefly I squeeze his hand, and then pull mine away to curl in on myself.

I fear I know what he will choose – and the reason I do not ask him to is because I dread the loneliness.

But I dread the escalation of this – violence – he says it is not, but to me it is violence, and I dread the day he comes home to me really hurt, really damaged.

“I love you, my Golden Flower,” I say, and I hope he cannot hear the tears in my voice. Tears of which I suppose some would say I should be ashamed – but how can I not weep for the loss of all that once made my life bright and fair? How can I not weep when he who was – is – the flower of chivalry, the best of knights, the most beloved, he – he whom I adore – begins to care no longer for me, to want my hands, my touch no more? How can I not weep when I fail him so? I do not know how to help him, how to help us, out of this – but I love him still, broken as he is, broken as I am, and I would have him know it.

“I know,” he says, “I know.”

He does not say the words I want to hear, and I fear the choice is made, the race run, the battle lost.

But if I wait a little longer – just a little longer – perhaps something will change once more.

I am an elf.

I am patient.

I have waited all the years he was away from me.

I can wait again.

If it will save him from this madness, if giving him a home to come to will make the hurt fade in time – I would wait a thousand, thousand years.

And I lie in silence listening to his breath as he falls into rest.


	4. Chapter 4

How did we come to this, I ask myself again, and – elf that I am – the memories play themselves unbidden, unwanted.

Memories of those first glimmerings of understanding, of each step on this path that we have taken – and I wonder again – what did I miss? What signs, what turnings did I fail to see, to lead us away from this – this place where we now dwell? This place of despair and loneliness, of aching and hurt, of words that cannot be spoken.

What did I do so very wrong?

How did I fail my beloved so?

Each time the memories come I think I will see it, I will see the mistakes I made, and how to right them – but – I cannot. I cannot see how I could have acted differently, and must instead watch our descent once more.

 

 

It is so long – so very long – since I have woken in his arms, that for an instant I wonder if all is now as I hoped, as I dreamed it would be. For an instant I wonder if all the terrors were a price worth paying that he hold me, comfort me, love me once more.

Then I see his face.

He looks at me, calm, strong, dignified, and – and I shrug.

“Nightmares,” I say, and he nods, his arms around me still.

“I thought,” he begins, “I thought here – here it would be better.”

I shake my head, then think,

“I do not know,” I say, “obviously. But – they do not cease.”

I thought they would now you are here, here to stay, now this is our home, now – now we are acknowledged in the eyes of all, I think, but I do not say it. The last thing he needs is a reproach.

“What do you do when they come?” he asks, and I look away, knowing my remedy is childlike.

“Warm milk,” I answer, flushing, “warm milk to drink, and a candle left burning to ward off the dark.”

He nods, and stretches out a hand as he rises, to lead me to the kitchen.

“Does it work?” 

I shrug,

“Not noticeably,” I admit, and he laughs, a hollow sound in the empty night.

 

 

It is strange, I think, how this fire is comforting. You would think it would be – horrifying, full of painful memories, but to sit by the range is to remember home, and nights when Naneth and Ada were gone out, or entertaining, and I could sneak down and drink milk in a corner of the kitchen with our cook.

Comforting.

I do not know if he has similar thoughts, until he speaks,

“Do you know,” he muses, and I watch his face, his beautiful face as he stares into the flames, “I cannot remember the last time I drank milk. Before – before the Ice, even, I suppose. In all the years, all the remedies, this is not one I have tried.”

I am silent.

All the years, he says, and something in me aches at the reminder of how long we have been apart. Aches at the thought of both of us suffering, looking for remedies, for help – and not being able to reach out. I do not know if – if together we can make something of ourselves once more, if together we can step away from the horror, the pain, the failure, the shame – but – I have dreamed for so long that we could, if only we tried.

“Will the nightmares return tonight?” he asks, and I shake my head.

“No; at least, they never have. So perhaps the milk does help, a little,” I sigh, “Unless – unless it is as we were always told – unless this – between us – is wrong. Then I suppose they might come again.”

He starts, still looking away, and I – I wonder if I should not have spoken so. After all, it has been – how long – nearly a month of nights now – and he has not seemed to want more than the comforting embrace of friendship. 

I do not think any ever thought the Valar denied that.

Still turned away, he speaks, slowly,

“About – that. I – it has been so long. I was not sure – you have not – are things – do you wish for – things to be as they were?”

I look at him in wonder. My sweet Golden Flower, how not, I think? How could any not long to – to hold you, touch you, and – and more? More as I know we once had. I – I have longed for you so, wanted you, ached for your touch, your kisses, for the sweetness that was worth the cost, worth any cost, any lies, any deceit.

“If it pleased you,” I say, “I – I would not object. But – I do not ask it. If you have learnt to live without – your friendship is enough.”

A lie, but – a lie in a good cause. If friendship is all he desires, who am I to ask for more? I would not trade what I have, for neither would I wish to find myself alone in this house I designed for two nor to see him force himself to something which is, perhaps, not the highest good. 

Just – do not ask me to meet your wife when you find one, do not sing to me the praises of your beautiful beloved wife, do not ask me to play with your children.

That I cannot do.

I love you so.

The silence is such that I cannot keep my eyes on the flames, there is a waiting quality to it, and when I glance up, I see – I see something I cannot read in his face even as he speaks words I have longed to hear,

“But friendship is not what the heart and body have longed for, all these years apart. Ecthelion, be mine again, and – and perhaps we can find a way through these darkest nights.”

He smiles, and oh his smile is no different, it is warm and confiding, and he makes me feel all that I am not, and never was, he makes me feel truly fair of face, fair in the eyes of one who is all to me, not merely by reputation in the eyes of the multitude; he makes me – heated. As I flush, he stretches out his hand, and I put my empty cup on the table, careful even now not to leave it where someone could trip, before I reach out in my turn.

He, as ever, is careless of such things – in his mind, servants have a job to do, it is not for lords to anticipate their problems – and all too often, I would stop, and move his cup, but – somehow tonight is different, and I let him draw us close, let our mouths meet, and – and memory has not been accurate all these years.

How could any cold reminiscence compare to his warmth, and passion?

“Here, by the fire,” he says, and I – I want to – but – even now, old habits run deep,

“No,” I pull back, “I – please – upstairs,” I manage a smile, manage to make a joke, when in truth I am crying out – where did you learn such habits? Where did you learn to be so open, so – so unafraid? With whom did you learn this? “I would not be found here in the morning – and if I remember you well, we shall not wish to move later.”

But all through the rest of the night, even as he kisses me, as his mouth works my body until I know nothing but heat and warmth and need, even as I let my hands relearn him, even as we cling and cry out, even as he moves above me, as I take him into me, as I touch him, ride him, as the night goes on, and on, and words are spoken, and touches become all they ever were – and – and more, so much more – the questions beat a rhythm in my head.

Where did you learn things I know not?

With whom have you practised these arts?

What have you been doing all these years?

And what kind of elf am I that I do not trust and accept your love now it is offered?

 

 

 

We are sitting by a river, watching it flow, when he starts it.

“So – what other remedies have you tried?” he asks, and – and if I knew what was to come, I would never let this begin. 

But I am a fool.

“The usual,” I say, shrugging, “wine, which was awful – I could not wake and had to watch it all to the end. Running, sparring, swimming to exhaustion – so I could not raise my arms to fight. Talking with others – so it became clearer and clearer. Asking the Valar for help – so I began to wonder again whether it was our – our sin – that stopped them listening. I – I even – not long ago – tried that – what do they call it – Old Toby,” I shudder, remembering, “and the – the memories were – a thousand times worse.”

With each remedy, he nods, and I know he has tried the same.

“I had hoped,” he says still looking away, “that it would be less for you. I – I thought it must be – I – how can it not be?”

I draw my knees up to my chest, I hunch myself over because this – this is the root of it. What is wrong with us that we feel this? Others do not seem to – others seem to – to bounce along as though nothing much happened. I do not understand what it is that makes it so much worse for he and I. 

Unless, I think, it is merely that we all hide it. That Valinor is full of elves who ache, and fear, and sweat, and cry out at night.

That would be irony indeed.

But he is still waiting for an answer.

“I failed.”

That is the crux of it.

He waits, knowing me so well.

“I failed to protect – any of you. I fought – I fought and I failed. I heard you scream – heard you see me – see my failure. If – I do not know – but – if I had done what I hoped to do – it would have been enough to save you.”

I am silent, and he waits still.

“I failed, and I cannot forgive myself. I left you alone. I failed to stay with you, at your side, I tried to protect you, and instead I deserted you.”

He laughs, bitter and hollow again, and I look at the beauty that surrounds us, at the flowers, the trees, the water, all of nature pure and clear and perfect – and it means nothing to us – and I ache for all that we once were. For the days when – when this would have been everything we could ask.

“You failed? _You_ failed? What of me? – I watched you die. I watched you die and I did not run to you, I did not take your hand; I could have saved you – I should have died trying. I left you. I watched you die, and I walked away. I listened to your words, when you spoke of saving the city, of keeping our people safe, of putting honour, duty, everything before love. And I obeyed you. And – and when I wanted to run back to you – when I would have changed my mind – it was too late – and when I would have run back – would have followed you then and there – I listened again to the words you spoke, I did as you bid me, and I left you,” he pauses, and without looking takes my hand, and we sit there, staring at the water, unseeing, unhearing of all that is created for our joy, seeing only flames and blood, hearing only screams and burning, laughter and gloating, “I left you, I watched you die and I left – and I failed. I failed because – because I had not the courage to go on without you. And that – that is why we were fated to be apart so long, why I sailed without you. Because I had failed once through love of you – yet I failed our love also.”

“No,” I say, yet how can he hear when I cannot hear my own voice above the cries, the screams, the flames that are in our heads, and so louder I say, “no, beloved, you did not fail. You saved them – all I hear from those who were in that column is of you, of your courage, your fight,” I laugh, and perhaps it would not make others laugh, I daresay there are many who resent it, but I never have, “of all those who died that day, all those who fought, there is only one who is credited with the lives of all those who survived – Glorfindel of Gondolin, Glorfindel the Balrog Slayer.”

He leans against me, and for a moment, a long moment, I wonder if that is enough, if one conversation can be enough to rid us of those terrors, of the beating heart and cold dread that comes at night.

For it seems I am a fool in my love, in my trust.

“I love you,” I say, and I think I have never spoken so freely, never in all the years did we dare sit like this, hands clasped, speaking of love – and now, now our hands grip in fear, in longing, in desperation, now we speak of love as others might speak of a rope to cling to as they climb a cliff.

“I love you,” he says, and it sounds not – not romantic, but – despairing.

 

 

 

The stream continues its song, unending, unchanging, and the sun moves above us, the moon rises, the stars come out in all their beauty, cold and clear, and – and no help at all.

“You never – in all the years – did you ever try – company?” he asks, and now the cold inside me is not the cold of the night sky, not the cold of the distance of the Valar, now the cold is a creeping chill, a fear of loneliness, of – of a wait that this time will have no end.

“No,” I say, and I close my mouth on the obvious question, I bite my teeth shut that I do not remind him of our vows, of our promises, of the trust and honour between us, the trust and honour that perhaps died the day that all else died, the day we died, apart, not holding each other, not side by side as we should have done.

He must hear the silence, he must know I am asking him to not speak, not to tell me these things, but he takes a deep breath and begins anyway,

“I did, I am sorry for it, sorry it hurts you, but – it seemed – it was normal – so many did. So many elves – the rules we were bound by seemed not to apply. I – I do not suppose you want to hear who, and how many, but – I did. The – acts – the companionship – at night – it did not help. It made it worse, to be seen that way. I stopped, I – I thought there was no help for it. I began to accept it as part of this new life.”

So.

There were many.

But they did not help him.

And he does not speak of love, only of – acts – and company.

Perhaps I can learn to forgive this.

Do not deceive yourself, Ecthelion, you will, as you have known all along you will, learn to forgive, to accept anything – because you made a vow, and you keep your vows.

For good or ill.

But he speaks again, telling me there was something, something that he was taught, that helped, that made the nightmares recede, for a little time at least, and if I knew what he means, if I understood, if I had even the smallest measure of foresight – I would silence him, I would end this now, I would run, run a thousand miles before I would listen.

But I do not.

And he leads me into – into a place I never knew existed.

A place I never wanted to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally, this stopped at the end of chapter One. Then Chapters Two & Three came along before I posted - but I thought that was it.  
> Now there is more.  
> Unusually for me, I haven't written it all in advance, I don't, yet, know where this journey is going - so the updates will be a lot slower than usual. I will do my best to, if not finish in a sense of tying off neatly, at least reach a conclusion - but it might be a long while coming.
> 
> As ever, comments & constructive criticism welcome.


	5. Chapter 5

I thought – if I thought at all – that everything would somehow – resolve itself when we came here. That is, after all, the promise of this land, is it not? That all wrongs will be righted, all hurts made well.

I do not know what I expected. How can even the Valar solve the problem I have created? How divide one elf between two?

I do not know what I expected.

That he would not be waiting for me, perhaps. That he would have – as I know there were times when he longed to – found a – a more conventional love. Married.

Or that – unbeknownst to me – there was more than one elf here waiting for that ship that carried us.

That when we disembarked, not only I, but my – friend – also would be greeted by one elf in particular.

No.

There were plenty awaiting us, that is true – but – none for my friend, and I – I was sad to see it.

Did I know then already the truth of my heart?

In all honesty, I think not.

He was my friend, he was one of whom I was fond, one I would not see hurt.

And that the only greeting awaiting him was that of one he had served so many years – it seemed sad. Typical of him, cold and removed from all as he is, yet, sad.

As for Ecthelion – at first, I thought perhaps he had resolved this time to live as he so long believed the better way. His greeting, so restrained, so – understated. I had forgot how we always were, how that was the way of it in our city, our land. Our time.

When he spoke of our home – of a house made ready, a place in it for me, I did not truly know what to think. I thought – I thought of eccentric bachelors, sharing accommodation. I thought of half-understandings, and raised eyebrows, of all the veiled hints and scorn, the quiet pity that we knew before – and I was afraid – afraid to pay such a price, yet gain no more than friendship.

For there seemed to me nothing in his face or words, nothing in the touch of hands, the smile on his lips that spoke of more.

Nothing until I looked at his eyes, and saw he was – unchanged.

That he had waited.

And then I knew I had failed him once more – and I longed once again for the only path to forgiveness, to peace, that I have come to understand – yet even as I longed, I knew it was forbidden me, lest I hurt him more.

When once we were alone together – I thought he would reach out, hold me, and I – I admit I longed for it, thought it might go some way to healing the hurt, to making all well between us. Yet – still he remained cold and formal, speaking of the commonplace, of who lives where, of fruit, of – of politics, of pastimes – save with his eyes, his dark eyes which spoke all too clearly of longing, of need, of – of love.

Then, then I found a cruelty dwelt within me of which I had not known. I wondered what would happen if I too found words only for such trifles, if I too waited, if I reached out no more than he – if I for once refused him the luxury of persuasion, of temptation, and expected him to bear his own guilt.

Perhaps I wondered if he was right, if such things are truly forbidden here – though I doubted that those whom I had known only in the East would abide by such a rule. I thought – were it to be so – then perhaps, perhaps if we lived this way, I would find the night-terrors leave me for all time at last, and so when he showed me our room – our room – though I was not cruel enough to ask for separation, neither did I reach to hold and touch, to kiss and please as once we did.

Let him ask, I thought, just this one time, let him approach me – or let us be no more than avowed friends, and let the Valar take this sacrifice and give us peace.

They did not.

As in truth I knew they would, they took our sacrifice and returned us – nothing.

Four long weeks we lay together, chaste as any could be, chaste as Turgon would have approved – and though I woke not screaming, still I did not feel the peace and calm I crave, the comfort that elves were promised here.

As for him, those four weeks Ecthelion suffered not with those terrors we both have come to know so well – yet I think that was partly because he did not sleep beyond those few hours the body cannot do without, the minimum rest even an elf requires that exhaustion not send both mind and body into need of healing. For, as perhaps I knew, he lay beside me, tortured by the thought that I cared not, that I desired him not, that he had lost me, until the night that his dreams were of a greater fear, a greater pain by far – and then, only then, could I find it within me to reach out, and hold him as he wept. 

Then and only then could I find a path back to the love and desire that once sparked so hot between us – then watching him, innocent, drink his milk, and speak of a need for comfort, then, seeing the flame reflected in his eyes, on his skin, then I could lead him by candlelight, by the light of flame once more, and take him, mould him under me, leave him crying out and begging me for more – then I could feel something in me respond to his love and need.

Then I began to know that I had brought with me something which has no place here, something which I cannot bear to see touch him – yet cannot bear to be without.


	6. Chapter 6

Of course, I knew it would change between us here.

I am not a fool. 

If there is one thing about me on which all agree, it is that I am no fool.

Even on the ship, I felt him begin to distance himself from me – in his thoughts, that is. We were never closer than – colleagues – in the eyes of the world.

For all the years, the hours of night-time, we passed together, we never shared rooms, never were spoken of as a couple, never danced together, never walked under the stars alone.

Never kissed.

I am no fool.

I knew there was one who waited for him – and I knew he counted away the centuries until they could be together.

From – almost from the first – no, from before there was a first moment, before he saw me, I knew.

I dreamed, I let myself imagine – but I knew.

Here, I build a life for myself, again.

A life surrounded by books, by papers, by writing and correcting histories, documents, tales of valour even.

No poems.

No songs.

No tales of love.

What know I of poetry or beauty?

What know I of love?

Here I think, at first, I will learn to be – content. The air itself seems different, seems softer, less likely to inspire one to longings and passion.

I daresay the Valar have decreed it so. 

At first I think this.

Until the day he comes to me, he seeks me out, and – and as I watch him approach, I find – the air is unchanged. It has simply been the lack of him that has left me quiet and resigned, drained and ready for peace.

As he walks towards my house, I watch from the window, and I – I wonder if he knows, if he can ever know, how my heart beats for him, how my life is made brighter by his coming.

“You are busy,” he begins, and my heart – my heart sinks, as I realise this is – is not what a small and foolish part of me had hoped. That dreams no more come true here than in any other realm. “Erestor, I hear how hard you work, how quiet you live – I am sure you have your reasons and your comforts – I would not disturb you.”

He pauses, and I – I want to find words to say that his visits could never disturb me, that he is welcome, and more than welcome, and – but I do not. 

I am no fool.

Such words mean not what they say. He means – I have been telling myself you are content, you are odd, you are no concern of mine. I have been calling what was between us an aberration, something I should forget. I have been building something new with my beloved, my avowed one, the one of whom I spent years telling you.

He is here now only because he wants something.

I wait for him to hint at what it is he wants from me, ready to give it. 

In all probability, I think, he will be worried lest word reach the perfect, spotless Ecthelion of what he has been up to all these years – and he is here to ask for silence.

So be it.

He looks away, he cannot meet my eye, and I think it must be so.

“This is not easy to ask,” he says, and I am tempted for a moment to assure him it is not easy for me to hear, but, “Erestor, I – the things you taught me – the help you gave me – I need – “ he stops, and for a moment, my heart races, hoping, can dreams after all be made real? 

Has he found a need in him for – for me?

Then he speaks again,

“There are no mortals in this land. Elves – elves do not use – Erestor must I say it – there is no – saddlery shop, in all this land none makes such – instruments. Yet I am sure – you will have something I – we – could borrow? The nightmares return – I cannot watch him suffer – please – I would help him, release him as you did me.”

And I – I must be calm, and accepting, and – yes, of course, Glorfindel, my heart’s beloved, my only cherished sweetness, lord of my days and joy, once, of my nights – yes, I can lend – nay, give, you a whip, such as I know you have learnt to crave, the caress, the sting of it pleasing you in a way my hands never could.

It seems now that his hands cannot either – and I will not allow myself to feel a triumph that you reject me, but cannot reject my lessons.

It is not a triumph. It is, perhaps, the cruellest moment of all, the realisation that you would replace me even in this.

But I am no fool, to cry out for justice, for happiness.

I will not comment, not gossip, not even ask if you are sure this is the wise course, if this is something your lover also desires.

In truth, at that moment, it does not occur to me he might not.

For how could any whom Glorfindel desires deny him anything?

Even now, when he desires me not, when all he asks is a favour, I can deny him nothing. Not the gift, not the secrecy, and above all, not the reassurance that all that we were meant nothing to me, that he carries no guilt, that I – I have no wish for things to be different.

We speak of – of things of little importance, adjustments made, our lord, his sons, his wife, other acquaintances – and he takes his leave.

When he is gone – when I have watched him from my door, watched him return to his love, watched as I cease to exist in his mind – I return to my desk, and I bury myself in work.

I am no fool.

I will not weep, and sigh, and become one for a love that never was more than a dream.


	7. Chapter 7

I wonder if simply knowing it is there – knowing that I could reach for it – ask him for what I have come to need – is that enough?

At first, at first I think it is.

That knowledge of a way out, but more – the sweetness of his arms, the soft breath beside me, the shelter he would build with words, with memories, with reminiscence of days long gone – at first all this is enough.

It seems that his watchful stillness, his presence beside me is enough – that as I trusted him in the days we would patrol together, still I trust him now, that he can defend me from demons of the mind, as well as from – from any real danger.

Oh my Ecthelion.

That when I begin to sink into the nightmare, when the flames and screaming begins – he moves, gently, and I wake, and know – I am safe, it is over, he is here, we are together. 

And I tell myself this time – this time I will not leave his side, this time – were the worst to happen – we would not cling to any ideal, to any duty, but to each other, to our love. 

Oh my Ecthelion.

And I ignore the part of myself that whispers – what of the one of whom you do not let yourself think?

Would you leave him to die alone?

Because the innocence and trust beside me – surely that is worth protecting?

 

 

 

The stars are very bright here, very close, and from our bed – our bed, our acknowledged bed – I can see them, watch them as he sleeps, content and tired from our loving.

Our loving which is so – gentle. So – as it ever was. Nothing has changed between us, no new arts, no skill is brought to this.

I remember those days when first we fell into this – how we did not know – not really – what it was, what it meant. 

It is a tale I have never shared with any – for who was there to tell? None in Gondolin could have heard it and not condemned us for what was forbidden – and I had no desire to share such a tale with those I met in the lands across the sea, for they – they would have laughed at such ignorance, such – yearnings.

Our city was so different, so bound by rules and regulations, that words of such things were not spoken, only hints, as – as the worst – most sinful of lives. Yet at the same time, and I do not pretend to understand the contradiction, for two warriors to be so close as we were, to be the best of friends, to laugh, and drink, and sing together – to oftentimes be too tired, or too drunk, or just too – full of talk and song – to end the evening any way other than sharing a last drink in front of the fire – was praised.

Praised as virtuous.

For we did not wake other folk as we stumbled home, we did not importune servant girls up early to buy bread or deliver milk, or – or whatever else maidservants do as they trot about in the light of dawn. 

No, unlike – let us say – Egalmoth, we were never a nuisance to the public. We were – for many years – curled innocently together, perhaps a head resting on an outstretched arm, perhaps – perhaps bodies shifting to make each other comfortable, but with no thought of more.

Until something changed. 

Somehow – and I do not know how – something changed between us – at least, in my mind it did – and I – I would lie and watch him asleep – and long – long to reach out and touch – and not know quite why, or what I desired. Only that – that to be near him was no longer enough, yet I did not know how to ask for more. 

Only that when he was gone – I – in my shame and need – would retell the night that had passed, and change it – change the drunken clumsy embraces that warriors share into – into something closer to the way I had seen avowed artisans hold and – and kiss. Not a way that one ever saw the nobility act – even those who were wed or near to wedding. It was not done to behave so – yet – there was this need in me, and I knew I should take it as a sign that it was my time to marry. 

But to marry – would be to give up my time with Ecthelion.

And that I could not do.

Now, I hardly remember who reached out first. It seems to me that we both must have been longing, needing, and that night – we collapsed laughing onto the bed, instead of the floor, together, instead of apart – and it felt – so right, so natural.

I remember a moment when our faces were so close, looking into his eyes, and understanding that the need I saw in them was the same as that I felt, realising that – yes – his hands were as busy as mine, that somehow we had given each other licence to touch, to explore, to – to unfasten. Leaning in closer, and he – he reaching towards me, and – and the heat of his lips, the taste of wine on him, the softness my mouth felt even as my hand encountered hardness, and need, and – and then afterwards – settling together, finding comfort, finding that – yes. This was the way we were supposed to lie.

Not separate, not touching only by chance, or for barest comfort but – wrapped together, so that it was not possible to tell anymore where one ended and the other began. 

So that it seemed his heartbeat regulated my breathing.

Oh my Ecthelion.

We were joyous then.

We worried – of course we worried – at first we worried that someone would realise, would begin the questions – but – for so long we had been – what was it called – passionate friends – that it seemed none but us realised when it changed. We were joyous, and we spoke of love, we read tales, and cast ourselves in roles, and – and the world was bright and good, and surely our imprisonment in our city would not last, one day we would be free, and able to travel, and live as we chose, and see the world, see all the wonders of creation.

How young we were.

How innocent.

And oh my Ecthelion, had we known – had we known then what was before us – would we have perhaps – I do not know – talked more sensibly, realistically, for we had been in battles, we knew what it was to lose comrades, friends, we knew what panic and terror were – so why, why did we not bind ourselves together? Why speak always of duty, and honour?

Why did we not speak of clinging, of not leaving, of – of paying any price to stay together? Of you and I, and all that we meant to each other?

But we did not.

And now – now the scars are too deep.

I love you – but I fear to see you die again. When your breathing pauses, I fear; when you lie too still, I fear; and when you shake in fear, in nightmare panic – I want only to take it from you.

I want to save you.

But I only know one way.

And so – so I open the door, and I – I cast away all that is left of us.

In a search for the best, I lose the only good that still remains.


	8. Chapter 8

The nightmares return – as I have known they would – as they always do. 

Sometimes, when he has drunk deep the night before, I manage not to wake him, and to lie beside him, to know he is here, to hear him breathe, to – move close, and feel how without waking, he will smile, and pull me to him, and murmur something that I tell myself is my name – to feel loved, to feel as I always felt with him beside me – safe, and brave, and – and heroic enough for anything – even though I know now it is not the truth of me – it is enough.

Other times, he will wake, and we will go down to the kitchen together and drink warm milk – and if I see a hint of amusement in his smile, what matters it? – better amusement than fear, than distress. Those nights – I come to almost welcome the fear that wakes me, for – and I do not know why, it does not occur to me to ask for a reason – for those times end as did the first.

Only now – now I have lost my inhibitions, now I let him pull me down in the light of the kitchen range, in the warmth I kneel before him, I try to – to please him in this new way, to use my mouth as he guides me – and when I fail, being, it seems, not one to learn quickly, he pretends it matters not, and we laugh, and stumble, arms round each other, up the stairs to bed once more. Then, as that first time in this new life, he will leave the candles burning and I will watch his face as he enters me, and I – I will hope once more that it is my name he breathes as his eyes close and I move also and – and oh Valar if this is sin, it is the sweetest sin there is; if this is sin, then it is sin I have missed and needed all these years apart.

 

 

 

The nightmares return. But I think I can come to learn to live with them – only – only I have to ask, do I not?

Fool that I am.

Innocent, trusting fool.

“Beloved,” I say, for I cannot rid myself of the delight in such words, words we never dared do more than whisper in the secrecy of our rooms before – words which now can be said aloud, wherever we chose, “why is it – when I have a bad night – you look worse than I do in the morning?”

I am trying to make light of it, trying to pretend that I do not know.

He looks down at where my hand touches his, and slowly, reluctantly – but not reluctant enough – he answers me, 

“I cannot bear to see you so. I feel – I fail you again every night this happens – every night I allow it to return – that I do not offer you release from it, from the – the memory.”

Half-laughing, I shrug,

“It is not your fault, you never failed me. That – that is the trouble – you know this – we talked – it is I that failed you, I that deserves such – punishment,” and why, of all the words I could use, why in the name of all that is lovely, do I choose that one? “but here we are. Together. I suppose – I suppose the Valar do have a plan after all, and it will make sense one day –“

I do not know what other inanities I would go on to utter, what foolish words that pretend to comfort but mean nothing. 

His grip tightens, and he looks at me, his eyes somehow – pinning me.

“Is that truly how you feel?” he asks, “that you deserve – need – punishment? That you failed?”

I do not then recognise this look.

I will come to.

“Yes,” I say, “but since the Lord Mandos did not offer it – perhaps learning to live with what I did is the only form it can take.”

He smiles, a small and – different – smile, and nods, slightly. Still holding my hand, his eyes bore into mine,

“I can – we can make this aright, my sweet Ecthelion,” he says, and I – fool – nod, pinned still by his gaze, captured by the endearment. He stands, and then, “when the first star rises tonight, come out to my studio, and we will begin.”

He leaves, and I – I look after him, not understanding, thinking – but your studio – I had it built for you to paint in – you used to love to paint – you told me that was lost – I do not understand.

But I trust you.

If you offer me help, if you think this is what we need – I trust you.

 

 

 

I trust you.

Whatever this means, this strangely empty, tidy room, this different side to you, cold, aloof, austere – I trust you.

I will do as you say.

I trust you.

When he orders me to strip – I do so.

When he binds my eyes – I let him.

He kisses me, and I – I respond. How can I not?

He tells me I am beautiful, and I believe him.

He touches me – as he has long known how to do – arouses me, brings me close and leaves me wanting.

I feel his desire in his voice, his hands, his very breath.

When he bids me kneel – place my hands on the wall – I obey.

I trust you.

You love me.

And when the first blow falls – it does not truly hurt. I gasp, but it is surprise more than any pain.

It takes me a moment to realise he has some kind of – I try to remember what they are called, if there is a special word – I have seen Men use them – a whip. 

Such as one uses on animals.

Such as – I will not think of when I last saw one or Who wielded it.

I do not understand.

I think it is – some kind of – game – some kind of – I do not have the words – but – acting something – playing – it will mean nothing and soon be over.

I do not see how it will help – but – I trust you.

You love me.

Maybe you are right.

Only.

It hurts.

And you do not stop.

I trust you.

You love me.

Why do you not stop this?

I think perhaps – perhaps I am supposed to call out, to beg for it to finish, to ask for – for mercy – for forgiveness. 

Why do you not tell me?

So many years of learning to bear pain – it is not easy to make myself – but I do.

“Stop,” I manage, “I am sorry. Forgive me. I – Glorfindel – stop – I do not understand – please.”

But I cannot make myself scream, I cannot beg.

I cannot. 

I am – I was – Lord of the Fountains. I am supposed to be a hero. 

I am at least supposed to try to be brave.

I can only gasp the words, whisper them through gritted teeth.

And all the while you keep on.

I love you.

But you do not stop.

It hurts – but worse than the pain in my back, worse than the humiliation of being blindfolded, kneeling for this as though willing – worse is the ache in me.

I trusted you – and you do this.

This is not love.

How can I ever trust you again?

And somewhere inside other questions echo – who taught you this? 

Who did this to you?

What kind of elf am I that it matters so to me?

Why have I not the courage to tell you to stop, to stand up, to remove the whatever it is you have used to cover my eyes?

What is wrong with me?

What kind of elf _am_ I that my beloved does this?

 

 

I do not count, I am not aware of how long it goes on.

I only know the pain inside and out.

I trusted you.

We loved – our love was real, it was true.

So I believed, all the years we were forced to hide.

So I told myself all the years we were apart.

For the first time, I doubt – and I hate myself for it.

I have not the words for what you have done.

 

 

 

 

I hear my breathing, and I hear his, and – and oh Glorfindel – you are sobbing.

“You left me,” he says, “you bastard, Ecthelion, you left me, you made me watch you die, and you left me _alone_.”

There is a clatter to my left, and I guess he has thrown down the – the whip.

I am right.

He – he must be kneeling beside me, and I can feel his tears on me, his hands so soft, so gentle now, stroking over me, and his voice – over and over he is speaking to me, 

“I loved you, oh my Ecthelion, now do you see? Now do you know you are forgiven? Now can you be at peace? Now do you know how you hurt me, how I can never let you go again? Oh my Ecthelion, I loved you so,” and his voice changes, “ah sweet one, can you feel the heat of it? The truth of it? If you could see how beautiful you look, how brave you have been, my dear one, let me hold you now, let me take you like this.”

He – he is kissing me. Where he hurt me, now he is kissing.

I hear his words, and I do not understand, I do not see, I do not know anything, and – and I hear the tense he uses, and I – I am truly afraid.

And I – I seem to have no will left, no voice.

He guides me, and I let him; even though I am hurt, and perhaps because of it, I am still clinging to the remnants of my trust – he stopped, he did stop, he says it is over, and I – I am on my knees and elbows, and – and then – he is in me, and his hand on my shoulder, pushing me down, holding me still, the other hand tracing over my back, over the heat and lines, and he – he knows, even now, he knows how to move and I – I cannot resist this. Why would I want to? I have never wanted to, and I do not know how to, this has always been pleasure to us. 

Right from the first time – even though we did not really know how, and – and I let myself remember how – how we wanted, we knew there was something more than hands – and – and oh the first time we got it right, how I loved the expression on his face as he – he let me in – and the feeling of – of completion, of belonging. And afterwards, I remember how he clung to me, and I to him, and we – we searched for words, for vows, because – because we were joined, joined forever, and we knew it, and so – so this – this will be well, surely.

Somehow, this will be well.

We are elves, we cannot undo what we have sworn – and I do not wish to – I just – I want to lose myself in him, and give him the same.

“I love you,” I say, as though that simple phrase will make all things right, will undo what has happened.

He touches me, and it is only later I realise he does not answer – but he moves, and – and I cannot help but cry out in surrender to the pleasure he is giving me; I feel his body empty into me as his hands tighten.

 

 

 

Afterwards I feel lost and empty, but he unties the blindfold, he helps me stand and leads me to the couch, his arms supporting me. He lays me on my front, and I am grateful that I need not meet his eyes.

“This will help,” he says, and I feel something cool, some lotion or other, spread over the soreness, “we will sleep here a little, then walk slowly up to the house. A bath, more of this, it will be gone by morning. But drink now, and let me hold you.”

I want to ask, to shout, to shake him and ask him if he knows what he has done, if he truly cares nothing for me – but – he is so gentle, so kind, so – so loving. 

And I am tired.

I submit.


	9. Chapter 9

We do not speak of what happened for days.

By morning, as he said, the marks are gone, the aches in my body soothed away. The pain in my heart is there, constant, but I do not know how to begin the questions. Instead, I feel myself retreat, I feel a distance open between us, and I know myself a coward.

 

There is a – party, I suppose – a gathering – to celebrate – some feast day. He is insistent that we go – both of us – together.

“I will know none of them,” I say, wondering why he would want me at his side, wondering what I have to say to any of these of the household of Elrond. “I would rather not.”

But – he does not listen. He is full of talk of music, of flute-players and minstrels – he seems to think he does me a favour by taking me.

He looks so – happy – so excited – that I find myself giving in. As I have always given in to him in this mood.

But now – now I do so from tiredness, from lethargy, from the awareness that – it matters little to me – not from love, not from the joy of seeing him lit up and smiling.

I am afraid of his smiles now. I keep remembering the way he smiled at me, the look in his eye, the – the endearments he used. And what came after.

I am afraid of myself. Afraid I will – allow it again. Not because I want it, or liked it, or took any pleasure in it, beyond what he – he knew I could not resist – but – because I have always given in to him before.

Always he could persuade me to – anything.

That is how he is – how we are. 

He is flamboyant, loud, outgoing and charismatic. I – am not. He likes to be in the middle of everything, centre of attention. I – like to watch and speak only to those I wish to hear answer.

Yet before – in those days that are lost – we used to drink, sing, laugh, party together. We used to have fun.

That is how our love began – in fun. We were always friends, always close, always together, in sparring, training, expeditions, patrol – and in dancing, singing, feasting – drunken antics. Often we would end the evening in one set of rooms – and it mattered not which.

It never occurred to me to question why neither of us had a sweetheart, a lady-love. 

I think – looking back – I was naive, even for an elf of our time, our city. I waited – as I thought one did – for my parents to suggest a match.

I never thought how I would feel the day they did.

I remember them saying that they had found a suitable ellith – and she was known to me, she was someone I liked – or had done the twice I had met her. I knew her brothers. I liked them. There was a lot of sense in the idea – we had lands that ran together, we had much in common – she was musical, I believe. 

Yet – when they spoke of it, of my meeting with her, her family, the contract, I felt nothing. 

Until they spoke of my leaving my rooms, of living with her. Of no more – parties.

And I realised – no more Glorfindel.

No more nights out, laughing, singing, holding each other in drunken – supposedly drunken – staggering.

No more not bothering to go to bed, but lying on his floor, sleeping beside him.

No more being first in his life, and knowing he was first in mine.

No more Glorfindel-and-Ecthelion.

I remember the silence.

The look on their faces as they looked at me. I do not know what they saw – even now, it is not something of which we have spoken.

I remember swallowing, and trying to stammer words of – of agreement, of the necessity of my meeting her to decide.

I remember walking away, and – and trying to understand myself.

I suppose they must have talked, because each of them came to me, later that day, to tell me it was not fixed, I need not, there was no compulsion. My mother assuring me that there were many other ellyth out there – a lie we both pretended to believe – Gondolin being as it was, there were not that many options. 

My father looking fixedly at the flowers I had growing on my windowsill as he told me I need not marry at all if I did not wish it, my brother had, my sisters might. That they wanted only my happiness – all I need do was say.

Or not say, he added, staring still at the mixture of leaves, of plants flowering and out of season, I need only not come to him and ask for a meeting, a looking over of contracts, and – and he would never mention such things to me again. 

I do not know what answer I made – if I made any answer – and he took his leave, and I – I stared at the flowers and wondered that I had not seen it before.

That none had ever spoken of it in jest.

For every one of them was – ridiculous cliché is it not? – yellow. Golden.

I had surrounded myself with golden flowers.

 

 

I should, for the sake of my own reputation, my own pride, say that when I came to design this garden – and little though I care for such things, one must do something with the ages that one’s beloved is – saving the world, as I thought – learning things he were better not to know, I now find – when I came to design this garden, I was more – careful.

There are few such flowers here.

At least – there are others also.

Some.

 

 

My parents were true to my father’s word. We never spoke of such matters again. 

The ellith in question – married someone. I forget who.

And I – was burdened with a knowledge of myself I did not want.

I loved Glorfindel in a way that ellyn were not meant to love.

I – I wanted to – be with him. Hold him. 

Be held.

Kiss.

And – and things I had not the words for, but could imagine so easily.

At first, I thought I should perhaps avoid him – but – I had not the strength, nor, in truth, the will. I loved him, I knew myself well enough to know I would not – would never – push for anything he did not offer, would never touch without his invitation, would not even look, now I understood my gaze to be – wrong.

Instead, I worried lest others than my parents had seen how it was – lest he be smeared with my shame. 

Foolish, I daresay, but – of all things, that was what I worried over. Yet – somehow – in his presence, I did not worry. I felt instead – as I always had – joyous, alive, beautiful, more skilled in every art – as though anything were possible.

Until the day – the evening rather – when, drunk, as usual, he – subtle as ever – engineered our fall onto the bed, and I found that I was not the only one to long, to need, to – to love. 

Life was sweet then.

Love was all I had ever dreamed – and more. 

It began in fun, in innocence, in – honesty. 

Is this truly how it will end?

For now – now I am tired.

 

 

 

I am tired. I find – I find that after all the waiting, all the longing, this time is not as I hoped – and I am tired.

I love him.

That one evening has not been repeated, nor even mentioned. I tell myself it was an aberration, a game that went wrong, something of which he had heard talk, but knew nothing. 

But – I am so afraid it is a lie.

And so hurt that he does not see what he has done.


	10. Chapter 10

It is not possible to avoid every occasion where they will attend.

Not without causing comment.

Fortunately, I learnt to be – inconspicuous – long ago.

He does not look for me, and so he does not see me.

As for – Ecthelion the Perfect – I think he does not even know I exist.

Fool.

I wonder how he can not have noticed the changes in his lover – how he can not have asked questions about knowledge that, I am told, was learnt only in the uninhibited court of Gil-Galahad.

 

 

There is to be another celebration, and I find I can think of no good reason not to attend.

I see them, together, but – something is changed between them.

I could not say what – I do not know either of them well enough.

Ecthelion I do not look at.

I do not want to know this elf.

I do not want to know of any flaws in him.

If I do not know, I can imagine all perfect between them, and I – I can learn to be content with memories, and with the knowledge that Glorfindel is as he should be.

Elves being elves, there is talk, and song, and old tales are brought out.

Great deeds are remembered, and I – I find I cannot keep from glancing at him as the tale of the Fall of Gondolin is recited.

I know what it is he will need this night, and I wonder how well Ecthelion has learnt to play the part.

It occurs to me to wonder also what memories it stirs for him, and how he has learnt to put the pain away.

He stares into the flames as the tale is told, and I cannot read anything in his face.

Glorfindel – laughs and claps, but I see the shadows in his eyes, and I know he will crave later the only proof of survival he can believe.

I wonder how well Ecthelion has learnt to wield the whip, how well he has learnt to use flame and heat, and how to submit, to be conquered for his beloved.

The blankness in his face gives me no clue.


	11. Chapter 11

“I told you,” he says, and I do not hear the tension in his voice, for I am so blind, so blind to the truth of him, “I told you that all anyone remembers is Glorfindel the brave, Glorfindel the Hero – “

“Stop it,” I say, and my voice must be harsher than I know, for he flinches – he, Ecthelion, bravest warrior I ever knew – he flinches from me, but I do not see it even then, “stop laughing, stop talking about it. I – I will need your help tonight. Please. Or the nightmares will be back again.”

I know by now that there are some nights when they will come – not always, sometimes they come without my knowing why – but after such a recital – I know they will be very bad.

We walk in silence, and I do not wonder why.

When once we are home, and it is home, I tell myself, this house he built for us is now my home, and I must not let myself think of other places that have been home, or what it is – who it is – I miss – when once we are home, the servants being already gone to their own beds, I turn to him again,

“I know what helped me before – but – if you have – anything you would rather – try – then – tell me.”

He looks – blankly – at me, and I do not see the fear in his eyes,

“I – Glorfindel – I do not know what you would have, what – else – there can be. I – you do not – I love you,” he swallows, and I see him take a breath, “where would you have this then?”

I look around us, and – no, this is not the right place. Yet on such a night, when so many have been feasting and star-gazing – under a roof might be best.

“The studio again,” I say, and turn, trusting he will follow me. 

We enter in silence, and I light candles, wondering how much he will understand without my speaking, how much I must explain of what I so desire, wondering – wondering how it will be. Finding that it is not only from fear of the night ahead that I want this, but from – from a longing to replace my traitorous thoughts of another.

Surely, I think, surely if Ecthelion – my sworn love – the one to whom I am supposed to cling – surely if he will, even just once, help me – that will drive away the thoughts and longings for he who taught me this?

Surely.

I turn back, and I find he has removed his tunic – and – the sight of his body in the flickering light, the glisten of sweat – it does not occur to me to wonder why he sweats – the scent of him, the way his hair falls loose as he removes the comb holding it into the formal style needed for a gathering such as the one we have been attending – I stand for a moment, entranced by him, forgetting all the complications of our lives, thinking only – he is my Ecthelion, and I desire him.

I love him.

Still.

I do.

How can I not? There is nothing base or ignoble in him. Nothing has changed. He does not play me false – he has not that in him.

I watch his chest rise and fall as he breathes, and I too remove my tunic, knowing he will be watching – hoping – hoping that the light which makes his dark hair shine flatters me also.

I see his fists clench, and I wonder – with a hitch in my breath, I wonder – what he plans. What he desires, what it will cost me to hear his voice filled with forgiveness, what price must I pay, what will he need from me to know I am his, and I think – however dark it is, whatever it is, I will do as he commands. I want only to be filled with the certainty of his presence, whatever the pain.

I so want all to be well between us.

And in my madness, I do not see that this road – this road will not take us home.

This road leads somewhere else.

But I do not see it.

I walk to him, and his eyes are closed now, his breathing harsh in the silence of the room. Far off, far away it seems, other elves are singing, making merry, celebrating in the thoughtless way of elves.

Here – is silence, and heaviness in the air.

I think it is desire.

Fool that I am.

I do not recognise fear.

How should I?

I never knew Ecthelion afraid before.

“You,” I whisper, as I reach out, and touch him, my hand stroking his hair, his face, down over his chest – and still I do not wonder at the sweat I feel – “you, Ecthelion, oh Ecthelion, you are beautiful.”

And when he shudders, I think it is with desire.

I lean close, I cannot stop myself, I have no control, no discipline – I need it so, I need him to give me that – I kiss him, so gently, my mouth against his, and he does not pull back, he gives no sign that he doubts, he is unsure. His lips open for me, as he ever has, he tastes sweet as wine, as honey, sweet as our loving ever was.

And I – I want him so.

I need him to want me.

“Lovely,” I say as I pull back, and then – then I kneel before him, and I know he can feel the heat of my breath as I gaze up at him, as I adore and worship him in silence.

He waits, unmoving, and I – I think I understand what it is he wants from me.

“I am sorry,” I say, and the words once started come easily, “forgive me. I left you, and I – I did not suffer enough for my sin. Please, Ecthelion, lord, take whatever you desire in recompense. Please, I beg you. I need to – to feel your anger – I need to know you can forgive me. Whatever you need, Ecthelion, lord, take it. I offer – anything. I would be yours once more. Forgive me.”

By the end, I am looking down, my hands folded in front of me, submissive, pleading.

There is silence, and I add,

“There are candles burning, use the flame, the heat, the wax, whatever you will. The whip – I have laid it ready for you. Only – please, Ecthelion. Do not make me wait – I can bear anything but that. I need you to forgive me – I need to know I am alive – that we are here.”

I kneel there, in the silence, watching his boots as he steps back, away from me.

I do not turn my head to see what he plans, as he walks out of my vision. 

I know that is not my part to play.

I wait.

I hear his breath, loud it seems in the quiet room, and the dominance of him is wonderful to me.

There is a – a rustle – and I suppose he is picking up the whip, holding it, looking at it – a swish – and I know he is trying it for weight, for balance.

I try not to tense, not to spoil the line of my back, not to move my hair aside – if that is what he needs to take – to ruin – I will not say him nay – I force myself to stay still, relaxed, perfect – not to spoil the view for him. 

I wait.

Longing.

Please.

Release me.

Show me I am alive.

Show me you are here.

Show me I am yours.

Please, Ecthelion, make this between us well.

The silence stretches, and I – I ache.

This – this is a new refinement. Waiting like this. I find – I find I am as hard as I have ever been – urgent now – the longing, the ache is so strong. My breath is harsh, panting with need.

And so it takes me longer than it should to understand.

His breath is harsh, but not from desire, not from need – not even from anger.

I – somehow – force myself out of the role I am in – and I stand, I turn, I look at him, and he – oh my Ecthelion – he weeps.

“Ecthelion?” I ask, uselessly, pointlessly.

He shakes his head, and places the whip carefully, so carefully, he is always so gentle – the gentlest of warriors – carefully he places it back where I had left it for him, and he turns his face away from me.

“I do not understand you,” he says, and the despair in his voice tears at me, “I do not understand what you want from me. I cannot – I cannot hurt you. I – I will bear your wrath – as I did before – if that is what you need – but – I cannot hurt you.”

He wipes his eyes, and then, before I can even begin to answer, and I do not know what foolishness I would say so perhaps it is as well, he continues, 

“I love you. Nothing has changed for me – yet everything it seems is different for you now. I love you, Glorfindel, and I – I do not understand these things you have learnt.”

I reach out for him, and take his hand, run my other hand through his hair once more, and feel him respond, feel his body move to lean against me.

“Then let me teach you,” I say, “let me be your guide in this. Trust me.”

He stands, unmoving, for a long moment, his eyes not meeting mine. Then he sighs, and closes them.

I hold him close, and although this is not what I had hoped for – not what I need tonight – I think all will be well.

But Ecthelion is one to know his own mind.

He was never one to be easily swayed – that was why I loved him so, I remember. 

He pushes – gently – but it is a push – away from me, and shakes his head.

“I let you once, I trusted you – and it was not enough for you. But it was too much for me. I do not want this. It is – wrong. I love you. Hurt and pain have no part in this for me. I,” he swallows, and it is clear that saying this hurts him also, “I love you, Glorfindel, and I would have things as they once were, I would have that joy again – and if we cannot be as we once were, innocent and joyous as we were in our days of glory, then – I would have the honour of friendship, of love – of comfort – of – of standing by your side to fight these demons – these nightmares – together. But not this – I do not have the words – this – this darkness of games, and pain, and words that sound important but mean nothing. I do not know where you learnt this – who taught you – or where you got this – this thing. I do not want to know. I am going now – I am going back to the house, to our bedroom, to our bed. I will be there, whenever you are ready to join me.”

And he walks away.

Leaving me alone, afraid.

Afraid I have lost him.

Afraid of what I have done.

Surrounded by flames, and darkness.

I tell myself it is not true, he is not lost.

I tell myself the flames are candles.

The flickering is the wind, it is not the movement of some – some creature watching me.

Pursuing me.

Ready to attack.

I feel my breath come fast and shallow, and I want – I want – I do not know what I want.

Ecthelion is gone.

I am alone.

Through the night-song of far-off elves comes – comes a – soft, padding sound.

The thumping of my heart, the rushing of blood in my ears, I tell myself.

But I do not believe it.

I know this – I know what must happen.

Footsteps on snow.

Heavy.

Some great beast.

And I – I turn, fast, looking for it, searching.

A candle gutters, and I see the wax – the hot wax – spill – but I cannot feel the wind that blows the flame. There is no wind.

And I am alone.

I cannot do this.

I cannot.

I reach for my dagger, but my hand is clumsy with fear and it slips from my grasp – I am no hero, no champion.

I am alone.

Ecthelion is gone.

I know I must stand my ground, I must not run, I must not scream.

But in the wind I cannot feel, the flames move, the shadows leap.

I am afraid.

And I scream.


	12. Chapter 12

Aimlessly, I drift through the night.

Out there, around me, I can hear elves making merry, singing, as elves do.

Above me, the stars are cold.

I walk alone, no path in mind.

It matters not.

I am not tired, I shall not sleep this night.

Tomorrow – tomorrow will be time enough to return to my home, to pick up threads of correspondence, of letters, of work.

Work which can be made to fill a life.

 

 

 

In the darkness, I do not realise where my feet have taken me – my treacherous feet.

My body, it seems, is more honest than I can allow myself to be.

My heart may be his – but if he wants it not, I will not show it.

Who am I to hurt him so – to cause him pain, for he is the best of knights, the most chivalrous elf I ever met – were he to know himself the cause of my unhappiness, he would be filled with remorse.

I would not do that to him.

But my foolish body does not understand. It only knows that when I lay at his side, I knew a peace I never felt before – and so it seeks the comfort for which it is starved.

 

 

 

At first, when I hear the cries, I think I have stumbled upon my worst nightmare.

That I will, inadvertently, see them – together. 

See the perfect Ecthelion standing, using whip, or flame, or some other refinement, to comfort him, to guide him through the fear.

For a moment, I turn away.

It is not right to see such things without invitation.

But – something – something makes me turn back.

Perhaps I sense something wrong in the cries.

Do not lie to yourself, Erestor.

I turn back because – somewhere inside – I want to see him – need to see him – like this, one last time.

It may help me walk away.

The sight of them together might finally give me the strength to do as I know I should.

 

 

 

But when I look, when I lift my eyes to the open door, I see not two elves, deep in each other’s world.

I see one elf, alone, crying out in fear, and pain, and loneliness.

And I cannot leave him in his misery now, anymore than I could that first time I saw him so, long ago, in that small cottage in the grounds of Imladris.

I cannot walk away.

And so – I go to him.

 

 

 

Once more, I stand over him, whip in one hand, candle in the other.

Once more, I speak the words he needs to hear.

“Fire and pain,” I say, softly, gently, “you want it, you crave it, Laurefindel, do you not?”

Slowly, I see him begin to uncurl, to reach out, blindly, for the dagger he has placed ready, but dropped in his terror.

His breath begins to calm, his panic turn to – to something else.

“You know,” I say, “the words you need to speak for this to end. But Glorfindel, I know you, I know your needs, your desires – give in to me, submit and it will be sweet, it will be all you dream.”

He shudders, and I – I am in flight, held up as though on wings by his desire, and my compassion. 

“Please,” he says, and the words seem to choke him, “please. Show me I live still. Show me I can earn forgiveness.”

And I bring the whip down, again and again.

 

 

 

The way he is tonight, it does not take long before he is crying out, wordless. 

It seems only moments before I hold him captive with the whip-tail, even as I move to kneel behind him, to reach round and bring him to ecstasy, to completion.

He leans against me, panting, spent, exhausted in my arms, and I – I love him so.

I bend my head against his neck, my lips soft, wanting – wanting only to kiss, to whisper – ready – longing – to speak the words I have not before dared say – for if the perfect Ecthelion has washed his hands of him – maybe it would not be wrong to do so.

Maybe – maybe there could be something in his heart – some shred of affection – for me.

And that – that would be enough.

That would be more than I ever truly hoped.

But even as I think this, even as I lean close, as I put down the whip, as I release his wrists, and touch gently the red lines on them that I long to soothe away, a movement catches my eye.

There.

At the door.

Watching.

The perfect Ecthelion.

 

 

 

He walks towards us, an expression of careful blankness on his face.

I wait.

“Glorfindel – beloved,” he says, and I admire his bravery, for there is not a tremor in his voice, not a sign of the anguish he must – surely – if he cares anything for his vowed one – feel. 

I admire his bravery for a moment, and then – then I am reeling in pain as he says, quietly, commandingly,

“I thank you for your time, your – assistance – Erestor. The lord Glorfindel and I will be in no further need of you tonight,” and – and he dismisses me with the nod he might use to a servant.

A groom, a footman, some such – one who had helped Glorfindel home when he had drunk too deep.

Nothing more.

Then he takes Glorfindel in his arms, so strong he is, and yet so gentle; he lifts him up, and bears him off.

“Oh my love,” I hear him say, “Glorfindel – sweet one – time to go home, time to – heal you.”

But I – as I bow respectfully, as I walk away, impassive, cold and contained as ever, I – I wonder if he truly believes he can.


	13. Chapter 13

Afterwards, I wonder what would have been, had I walked away more slowly. 

Or run back faster when I heard those cries, those heart-wrenching screams.

Had I reached him, held him to me, whispered reassurance, words of love and safety, of comfort, of – of standing together, of fighting side by side, of never being alone.

If I had – would things be different?

Or would my words have fallen useless, spent, meaningless to him?

Would he have turned from me, shown me to my face how little I now mean, as he pleaded for – for this horror – as he sought this – I cannot call it comfort, I cannot call it solace even – this – abasement?

But I will never know the answer to that.

I reach the building in time only to see the last act.

I see the whip catch my beloved’s wrists, I see the lines of blood on his back, and I – I want to run to him, to save him – but – he is in no need of my help.

He acquiesces – more than acquiesces – he pleads, he begs, he – he closes his eyes, and I see – I see this – other – hold him close, and – and with his hand he brings my beloved to a climax more – loud, more exhausting than any I have ever managed to give.

My heart does not break.

At least, I think it does not, for still I breathe, still I stand, watching.

I see the whip placed carefully – almost – reverently – on the floor – and I do not understand – I do not understand – what are they about that they seem to – to treasure this torture so?

And then – then I see the look on the face of this other – Erestor, that is his name, I recall. He is an elf of the household of Elrond Half-Elven – I have been introduced – I have spoken pleasantly to this elf – and the treachery of my love – that he should expect that of me – that he should leave me in ignorance while this elf – this elf must have known – it cuts me deep.

I do not feel the cut. Not now.

Only later will the hurt begin to show, when all is quiet and still, when there is time to think.

Now – now I think only – I will not stand by and let this happen.

I will not let him – Erestor – say the words I can see forming on his lips.

Not while I am here.

I am not that strong.

And so – I walk forwards, I keep my countenance, I thank him – Erestor – I thank the one who has hurt my beloved, the one it must be who dragged him down into this pit, I thank him, though the words burn my throat, as if he were a – what is the word – a healer of some sort. 

No.

I speak to him as though he were a servant, beneath my consideration.

I am not proud of myself for it – but – he remembers who I am, who he is, and he walks away.

I hold my love – my dear love – my joy – my only – the other half of my soul – I hold him in my arms – and I walk to the house – our house – the house I planned for us. I carry him over the threshold, and he does not laugh, he does not speak foolishly of brides and omens, he does not hold me, he does not turn his head to kiss me.

All means nothing to him.

He is lost to me.

He does not respond, deep in sleep as he now seems.

Gently, I lay my Glorfindel upon our bed – our bed – do the words mean anything any more – I do not know. I lay him down, I find salve, and warm water, I wash him, I tend him, I – I weep once more while he sleeps.

I weep for his hurts, for the pain in his eyes.

I weep that I failed him again tonight.

I weep for the love we had.

I weep for my trust – my faith – that – that we would be able to forget what is past. Not just the flames, the burning, the failures – but – I had until now believed – he would come to forget the others he has – I do not have the words. The others with whom he found pleasure.

I knew – I knew he would not forget, would not allow me to forget – the new – ways of pleasing – I knew I would ever have to live with the knowledge that he shared his body with others – but somehow – I never thought I would be faced with the proof of whom it was.

I weep that this is hardly the worst of it.

Suddenly, and I again wonder what kind of elf I am to think this – suddenly, the infidelity seems a trivial thing. This – this fascination with – pain, and, I begin to understand, reliving the very worst, changing the past – this seems – so much worse. So much beyond my comprehension.

I love him – I want to forgive him – I want all to be well between us. 

But if he cannot walk away from memory, from what is over – nor from things which would have been better left in the East – what can I do?

 

 

As he sleeps, and I remember how deep that sleep was that I fell into after – after he used that upon me – as he sleeps that deep, closed-eye sleep, I think.

I decide.

I will not lose him – not without trying all that I can.

Surely – surely somewhere within him there is still a memory, a longing for the goodness, the sweetness of the love we once had?

And when he wakes, I am curled against him, I raise my face to his, my lips to his, I hold him – gently, lest I hurt him, but – strong – I hold him close. Then – then for a little while, it almost seems that I am forgiven my failures, for he – he responds.

He kisses me, deep and loving, and I – I am in his arms once more – we move together – and what matters it who takes which part – who is over whom, who buried deep in whom – there are no words for this loving, this – this twining of selves.

But after, when we lie close, and I – I would have only the words of love, of trust, the foolishness and playfulness that we once knew – he takes my hand, and draws it over the lines – almost faded now – upon his back.

“I need this,” he says, and then – then I find I am a coward indeed.

I do not say – no. I do not say – choose. I do not say – I cannot understand, I cannot share you.

I do not speak as I have told myself I will.

Instead,

“I cannot give it,” I say, trying to find the words, “I cannot do this to you. And I – I cannot suffer it for you time after time. It – it is not something I can do. I – will you not try – for me – for us – to live without? Is there nothing – nothing that can help you – can we not – together – find a better way? Please?”

He frowns, and pulls away from me, the closeness of just moments ealier lost – and I – I feel the cold of loneliness, the empty space beside me, and I begin to fear more than ever that – our love was only a dream.

“What do you think I have been doing since the day I arrived here?” he asks, and the bitterness in his voice is like gall in my throat, “I have tried, I have tried so hard, Ecthelion. And the fear does not go, the nightmares do not leave, there is no better way – I am not a child to be comforted by milk, and – and cuddling. What more can you suggest? No, there is no easy way out for me. Only this – this helps.”

His scorn, his contempt for my gentle remedies – and yes, perhaps they are pathetic, but better that than this darkness – angers me.

“This helps?” I say, and now it is my turn to sound bitter, “this – the hero that you are – the warrior that I love – to kneel and plead, to crawl before – before a – what is he – some nothing, some low-born pen-pusher – some creature of a later Age – you – reduced to that? Whimpering and begging – crying out for the whip, and for his hand on you? And still – it does not truly help – if you cannot live without it – if you still have the fear and the nightmares still come – then it no more cures you than – than my childish comforts. But at least I am not – demeaned in front of others, not injured. No, Glorfindel, do not speak to me as though you have chosen the more valiant course.”

I am panting with my anger, so close, so close I am to saying – choose. Him or me. 

What I offer – or what he does.

But before I do, my love – and he is still my love – were he not I would not care – my love speaks once more,

“You know nothing of this. You do not see – I tried to show you – but you would not trust me – you would not listen. I tell you now, Ecthelion – if you will not do this for me – if you will not help me – then you must release me.”

We look at each other, and I see he means it.

He will walk away from me.

He will leave me for this.

Our eyes meet, stony and implacable, his gaze and mine – our wills well-matched, our strength as equal as any two can be.

But he is – as he always was – the more heated, more impulsive of us – and I – I reach for a compromise, a way to stave off the end.

I pretend to mistake his meaning.

“I will release you for this, then,” I say, and I draw a deep shuddering breath, “Glorfindel, I say to you now, if you believe you need this – this thing I cannot do – then you may go to Erestor for it. I will not – not see it as betrayal of our vows,” the words are forced out, but I say them. I will not lose him.

Not yet.

Please.

I waited so many years for you – let us try a little longer to be as we once hoped.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so.  
> we are nearly back where we came in to this. and then we move on.......
> 
> Apologies if Ecthelion's view of Erestor's 'games' seems simplistic, or rude, to anyone. That's how he sees this. He may, of course, be slightly biased by the fact it is Glorfindel who is involved - if it were two other elves, I daresay he would shrug, & not be too interested.


	14. Chapter 14

A little longer.

Those were my words to myself, that night.

Now I am still saying them.

If I wait a little longer – just a little longer – perhaps something will change once more.

So I tell myself.

Just a little longer, I say, as the seasons pass, the years turn.

 

 

I am an elf.

I am patient.

I waited all those years he was away from me.

I can wait again.

I would wait a thousand, thousand years for him.

 

 

So I have told myself, so I try to believe.

I love him.

I vowed myself to him, for all time, as elves do.

And so I wait.

 

 

I have my interests, my life here – I have music, friends, there is the house to run, the garden to watch over. 

Horses to ride – and that my love rarely wishes to ride out with me – rarely wishes to race or explore for pleasure – what matters it? I tell myself it is that he does not know these lands, that he has for so long ridden only in need, he forgets the joy of it – and I know it is a lie, I know that if he does not care to learn the lands, nothing will change – but I hide from the knowledge.

He does not care for music – he never did, I tell myself. I know it is a lie, I remember, deep within me I remember how once he sang with me, once music was – not as much to him as to me, but – a joy if not a life’s obsession – and I hide from this knowledge also.

The house, the garden – all are my responsibility it seems. He – he refuses to give any orders, he will not see they are his home – our home – a home I built for us. I tell myself it is simply time – time and – and patience that is needed.

He will come to feel at peace here.

Surely.

My friends are not, it seems, elves in whom he has much interest. Even those who were once our friends – he seems to have little real care for them. And I – I find it difficult to meet with those to whom he now has ties – the elves of the household of Elrond – the elves who are I suppose friends of Erestor. Elves who, it cuts me to realise, must think of myself as the – what is the mortal word – jilted lover – of Erestor as the true match.

How can he ask me to meet and drink with them?

But we do not speak of such things.

Once – once only does he name Erestor to me – and it is to say, clearly, and coldly, that if I speak to him in that way again – if I bear him not the respect due one who was – oh whatever titles Elrond laid upon him – then he – my beloved – will consider himself shamed by me.

I nod, once, in acceptance.

And I ensure I never again place myself in a position where I need speak to this – creature.

In all honesty, I think Erestor wishes to hear my voice as little as I to hear his. I wonder if it hurts him as it does me – there are times, seasons, when it is all I can think of – that my beloved – my Glorfindel – touches him, is close to him – kisses him – oh sweet Eru – that Glorfindel kisses Erestor – the very words burn me. The thought, the picture in my mind – and I have never seen it – but – to be so – intimate – together – they must kiss. How else could such things happen? And the idea – that his mouth has tasted another – many others, by his own admission – but those were in the years we were apart, those I could have learnt to ignore. But that this one – this one he still goes back to – kisses, touches – makes love to – and for all part of me cries out that this which they do is not love – it is not love – if it were love I could give it – yet I know he wanted that from me. So what is it they share? 

I suppose it must be a kind of love. A brutal, cold, hideous love. For how could one be so intimate with another were it not love? And the thought burns at me – yet is there not comfort also in it – for we lie together in more than sleep still – he loves me still – surely. 

Surely if I wait – if I try – as I do try – to learn these new – touches, skills – oh, not the terrifying games, not the darkness of pain and fear, but – the other things – if I learn those for him – will that not content him?

Will there not come a time when I am enough? When he turns from this – this horror – and comes home?

There are days when I have merely to look at him, at my dear love, my Golden lord – and I feel – what is the mortal word for this – ill? Sick? 

Jealous?

I think that is the word. It is not something I ever felt before – not something an elf is supposed to feel – not when vows have been said. 

Elves are not – what is the word – unfaithful. We are not made so. If he is – and he is – then – that it goes on so long – it is perhaps my fault. My failure.

Is my loving so – so ill-done, so unskilled, so lacking? I do not know in what way I fail; do I not give enough – or too much – or is my mouth not – not clever, my hand not – pleasing? Do I not respond as he likes now? Am I too – I do not know – I do not know how others are – but am I – too rough, too gentle, too loud, too quiet, too – too lost for words to say how much I feel? 

There must be some way in which I fail him, for every time we love – I, I would cling to him, and lie together as we used – but he – he does not hold me close, he sighs as though I barely please him, and I – I must turn my head to hide the knowledge that I am not enough, to hide that it pains me so.

What is wrong with me? I contented him before – but that was when he knew no other, when we – we were young, and knew not that any others had ever felt this way. 

I love him – yet I cannot learn all that he now desires.

What kind of elf am I that I refuse my beloved anything?

What kind of elf am I that my beloved kisses another?

As for more – for more than kisses – that I close my mind against. I will not think of it, of that moving hand, that arm that held, the head of my sweet lover resting on the shoulder of another for comfort. I will not think of his voice crying out, of the relief, the heat in his shout. I will not.

I will not think of that whip, the candles, the burns on his body, the marks. The many marks, marks I do not know how made, marks of which I cannot bear to think. I will not think of how or why, or whether I fail him that I cannot do this. I will not dwell upon the look on his face as he knelt before me and begged for – for something I feel sick to even remember. 

I will not remember the way he hurt me. I will not.

It was not his fault. 

I did not speak out.

I will not remember any of these things.

But I wonder if Erestor aches as I ache, if he also thinks it love he feels – and I suppose I should pity him – but I cannot find any compassion in me. You knew, I think, you knew, surely you knew how things were – and yet you let this happen.

And I know I lie to myself. There is only one responsible for this – and I am too much in love with him, too aware of his pain, his – brokenness – to lay blame at his feet.

 

 

 

From time to time, we are forced to face our hurts.

When he tries to paint – and I – I had no skill at such things, but always I loved to sit near, and watch, and dream the hours away – I do not go near at first, thinking he would rather be alone.

“I cannot,” he says, when I go to look for him one evening, taking my courage in both hands to approach that building, that studio, and finding – not any image from my fears, not the nightmare made real – but – just my poor beloved, sitting in the growing dark, with head in hands, and sheets of paper spoilt and torn around him, paints and brushes overturned in fury. “I cannot see – I cannot concentrate – I cannot – it is lost to me, Ecthelion, as all seems lost. All that I once valued is gone, and I – I am nothing.”

It is the beginning of the mood I have come to dread, the mood wherein he will be dark and sad, and thunderous for days – until at last he will take himself off, and – and find release in some way of which I do not wish to know – and come home to me, torn and hurt, and wanting – wanting very little indeed from me. But this time – this time I manage to find the words, to hold him, to tell him he is not nothing, he is my everything, and – and is there truly nothing of value here – right here – in his arms?

He smiles, and what if it is a sad smile, a consoling smile, it is still a smile, and he is here, and he holds me close, and – and for a little while things are right, right as they ever will be, perhaps.

 

Afterwards, he even laughs, and says that is not a use for paint he had ever considered, and we go together to the river, and in washing, and splashing under the stars, we laugh, and sing, and – and as we walk back to the house, our hands join, naturally, not clinging, not one of us trying to comfort the other, not a promise, simply – our hands seek to hold.

That night I sleep sound, and my dreams are sweet – and the next day he asks me to come out, and sit with him as I used, while he tries once more to paint.

We have many such good days.

Over the years, there are many days – many stretches even – of days that are good, and – and if not sweet as I hoped, sweet as once our love was – they are days when nothing matters but that we are here, together. Every time, I hope – I even allow myself to believe – that this time – this time it is real, it is begun – this time the nightmare is over. 

Yet always – always things change again.

But I know that the day I can no longer hope, or dream, or believe – that day, that day all we were, all we promised – that day it truly dies.

And so – I stay blind, I stay hiding from those who would tell me the truth.

I wait.

As I promised I would do.

I made a vow, and I will keep it, for good or ill.

I will not be forsworn.


	15. Chapter 15

Seasons will pass, and I do not see him.

Each time, I think perhaps it is finished. Perhaps the perfect Ecthelion has finally learnt to give him what he needs.

Each time, he will come back.

Ashamed of his need, ashamed of his silence – and, as is his way, he cannot admit to either, cannot find the words.

Fortunately, we never needed pretty speeches, or affection.

He needs only what I taught him to find relief.

I – I need only him.

Do not lie, Erestor. As has been proved, I do not need him. I can function quite well without word or look or touch of him.

I merely love him.

And so – I can refuse him nothing, reproach him not by word or look or deed.

 

 

The years pass, and I see the two of them together, from time to time.

They make a beautiful pair, well-matched, dark and gold, both warriors, both tall and strong and lordly.

I do not let myself wonder that they rarely touch, rarely share looks or smiles, as other lovers do.

The perfect Ecthelion is careful never to speak to me – and I am grateful to him. I repay him as best I can – I stay away from them, I do not draw attention to myself when they are present.

I do not let myself notice that they never dance together – that Glorfindel seems only to dance with ellyth – that Ecthelion never dances.

Musicians rarely dance, I tell myself, looking not at Lindir.

From time to time I catch myself wondering what if there was an accident – a battle even – there have been such things here before, it is not impossible – if Ecthelion – was no longer here.

Such thoughts disgust me.

Instead I wish the perfect Ecthelion fame and renown, all that he can find – in some other part of this land.

But it is only a dream, and if there is one thing I have learnt in all the years – it is that dreams do not come true. 

That longing and wishing, hoping and pleading with the Valar achieves nothing.

Seasons pass, years turn, and I – I remain here.

Waiting for the moments he wants something from me.

Aching with sorrow for him that after all this time – he cannot forgive himself, nor see that he is more than worthy.

Longing for more than he has to give, for kisses and affection, for – for words and touches I can barely imagine.

But all that part of him is saved for the perfect Ecthelion.

And I have no right to wish their vows forsaken.


	16. Chapter 16

Time passes, the seasons change and the years turn, as they ever do.

We have, it seems, come to a – what is the diplomatic word – my immediate thought is to ask Erestor, but I cannot – a compromise, that is it – Ecthelion and I.

He pretends not to know I fail him; I pretend not to see his hurt.

I pretend not to mind that he holds me to vows said in another life, vows which no longer resonate through me as they once did; he pretends not to mind that I break them every day and night of my existence.

Truthfully, I do care for him – he is Ecthelion, he has not changed – how could I not? When he dreams and cries out, afraid, I would not have him be alone – I would comfort him were I able. As I am not, I can at least hold him, and talk, and offer some companionship, someone to share the dark hours. 

Often I sit with him by the fire, he with his milk, I with some glass of spirits. I have ceased pretending to find comfort in a child’s drink; he has ceased to comment on dissolute mortal habits – as though elves do not use alcohol to warm us when nothing else can.

Often – sometimes – we make love.

It is not as it once was.

I cannot lose myself in him – I cannot forget that even as we move together, even as we are wound close – Erestor is alone. 

Ecthelion – Ecthelion closes his eyes, as though he cannot bear to see my face, my scars, and when we would once have clung and stayed wrapped together – now he rolls away, and I know it is that he does not want me to see the tears in his eyes.

Tears because each time I somehow fail him – I am different than I was – I know not how, but in some way I fall short of the standard of perfection he has built for me, not only when we were young and happy, but in all the years apart.

We do not speak of any of it, but I know it is my fault he hurts – I know that I hurt him with every day I do not renounce my need of Erestor, of what Erestor gives me.

But that is one lie I will not tell.

Every day I feel I am just – passing time – waiting until I can seek Erestor out once more, and kneel before him, become whatever he would have me be – and feel alive.

Sometimes I wonder what Ecthelion hopes – what does he suppose will end this – somewhere in his mind does he manage to believe that one day I will wake and say – I love you – I need only you – all is well with me once more? Does he think that the days we are pretending all is well between us will suddenly seem enough? Does he not care that I – I am not alive, not real to myself – that I am detached from all around me – that this life feels – empty?

I suppose I should ask him, should force him to speak of this – but in this also I am a coward.

 

 

 

There is a day his parents, his married sisters and their husbands who once I called friends, his brother and the beautiful Teleri wife, and their children, their children’s children, their children’s children’s children – I lose count of them all – descend upon us.

Apparently this was planned some time ago; I was told, I was consulted about food, and entertainment.

I do not remember.

For some hours, I manage to be pleasant – at least, I think I do – I try. The youngest children are lively, and full of energy. They have known no other land than this, no other races, no evil – to watch them run and play, and hear them sing – they are of Ecthelion’s family, after all, they sing sweet and clear and true – is indeed a joy.

So I tell myself, yet the tears run down my cheeks, unheeded by myself or Ecthelion, so often do they flow. These children – when they cry out, I hear screams; when they throw themselves on the floor I see twisted burnt bodies; when they wrestle and laugh, I hear the mocking humour of foul creatures as they torment their prey. 

I envy those who do not see this – and I resent the one who knows how it is with me, yet forces this upon me.

His parents, his siblings are all of them well-versed in Gondolindrin etiquette – by neither look nor word do they acknowledge my distress. The younger elves less so – their whispers reach me, and I – I walk away.

Let them talk of me as they will – but I will not stay to listen.

 

 

 

Chained and collared, paying the price of failure over and over, seeking redemption in the only way I know, I lose count of the days before I return.

It is evening, and the house is quiet, the servants gone.

Ecthelion sits by the fire, alone, staring into the flames.

I stand and through the window glass I watch him; I wonder what he sees there. 

I wonder how many evenings he has spent like this – and once more I would feel guilt – were it not that I am too tired, too blessedly used and worn, too much in pain to feel any strong emotion.

Instead, I walk in, and he – he does not even look up.

“There is food, drink, if you want it,” he says, and then, still not looking, “the salve is in the bathroom – your clothes are in their cupboard – the water will be hot if you wish to wash.”

I nod, and from somewhere I remember the words,

“Thank you,” but I do not know what I want. It seems the agony of choice and decision is upon me again – and I do not want it. 

He is silent.

I should go and – and wash – find clean clothing – tidy myself.

Sleep perhaps.

But something holds me here by him.

“No-one will carry tales elsewhere,” he says, as though that concerns me – but perhaps it does him – perhaps the thought that others might know how I behaved would be one thing too many for him to bear.

I nod, as though I am interested, and he speaks again.

“My sister – of all people – my sister took me aside, and said to me that – that if we were no longer content I should – should,” he stops, and I realise that his eyes are blinking furiously, to hold back tears he does not wish me to see, he swallows, and then – “I should ask you to leave. Better to be forsworn than cling to a vow that does no good, she said.”

There is silence.

“Feanor showed us that, she said,” he adds.

I suppose, vaguely, that I should speak. 

But I do not know what I would say. 

Were I all that I once was – were I the elf that he thinks me to be – were I the one who was so proud, so joyous, so much in love with my bright Ecthelion, I would hear the plea in his words, I would know he is begging me to speak against such anathema.

But I am broken beyond mending, I am blind to him, I am exhausted and aching, I – I am not the hero he wants me to be.

I never truly was.

“Is that what you want?” he asks, “Glorfindel – do you want me to release you – do you wish to go?”

I am silent.

He swallows again, and I – I should see what this is costing him – but I do not. Once more I do not see the truth of him, and I stand, waiting, forcing him to speak further.

“You asked me once to release you, and I – I was reluctant. I clung to – to a dream. I gave you release only for – for this part of your life that I will not – cannot – share. Did you then – do you now – want more? Do you wish to – to leave?”

His words echo in the quiet room, though he speaks softly – he has the performer’s trick of making his voice carry to every corner.

Do I wish to leave?

How can I tell what I wish?

I wish – I wish that none of this had happened. I wish that things were different.

Eventually I find my voice,

“If I did not still wish to find some – some glimpse of remembered joy here,” I say, “I suppose I would not have come back.”

It is not enough.

I know it is not enough.

But I have not the energy for more.

I turn, and walk slowly, wearily up the stairs, my back aching, my limbs heavy, as I remember I was commanded to wash myself, treat my injuries, rest.

From the indrawn breath, Ecthelion has seen my bloodied shirt, but he does not come after me to offer help or comfort. Instead I hear him weeping as I move from room to room above him.

Vaguely I wonder why.

I am here. I came back. I am staying.

Is that not what he wanted?


	17. Chapter 17

He walks away, as though that is an answer, and I look after him, wanting to shout, to force him to tell me what it is he wants – whether he truly has nothing left in him that cares for me.

I do not know whether I would have shouted.

It is not behaviour of which I would be proud, so I hope not.

Only – as I look after him – his bound hair slips aside, and I see – not the blood on the back of his shirt, that I am become used to, that I know how to ignore – I see that the livid red mark reaches right around his neck.

I am silent with horror.

That is not thin, like the usual marks, that is not – not the pattern that the whip makes – and to what am I come that I know this, that I can have these thoughts? That – I can only assume it is the mark of some kind of – of collar.

I am no mortal. I have never used a collar, or any – what is the word – harness – on any creature. If an animal will not serve me of its own will, I will not master it. Such a thing is – wrong.

But – and for a moment I want to laugh – but my beloved – my beloved Glorfindel – goes to another elf – and wears such a thing.

Five days.

Five days he has been gone. 

For an instant, I wonder what else they do.

What else is used that causes the marks with which I am now so unwillingly familiar? 

What other pain has he learnt to crave?

Would he tell me if I asked?

Would he – speak of this to me, show me?

All this time, I have thought it was – simply what he showed me before – the whip, and a need to – to know his mistakes forgiven, to know himself the victor of that desperate battle.

But this seems – more.

I did not know he considered himself so low, so – so in need of – I do not have the words.

Does he consider me also to be in need of such treatment? Does he believe that – that giving it – would ease his pain, would make him whole again? Or – does he somehow still believe he failed me – that I owe him the chance to – to – I have not the words, but – earn forgiveness through – through pain? If I – if I were to – to offer him that – either – one more time – and – and make believe that it pleased me, would he – would all be well once more?

Would the pain, the horror of it, the agony of hurting him – would it truly scourge away all that is wrong, all that is a deception between us? Would he once more be my true knight, my dearest and best of friends – would all be well and joyous, would the night and day once more be not long enough for the loving we would have?

And, for an instant, the images I have conjured make my ears burn.

Then I feel – sick – to find I can even begin to consider that.

Then I find my face wet with tears, and I cry for us that he should come to this – that I should not be able to prevent it – and, indeed, I find I am crying for Erestor also, that he – he should be drawn in to this misery.

Oh, I still blame him, I still hate him more than I ever knew I could hate an elf, I still would cut his living heart from his breast if that would not pain my love more than I can bear to admit – yet I pity him also – because I have seen the way he looks at my beloved, and the tale his eyes tell is very different to the one we live.

I hear the footsteps slow overhead, I hear the water running, and I – I cry that my sweet love, my Glorfindel, my friend – for first and before anything we were the best of friends – that he is come to this. I cry that he is so blind, that he does not see. He does not see or hear my love, my need, so desperate he is for this other – and yet nor does he see the need, the love in that elf’s eyes.

I cry for fear that at last I begin to understand.

I love him, I am vowed and bound to him.

Erestor loves him, and though I have no understanding of these strange elves from another time, another place – it seems he also is bound to him in some way. In all these years there has never been hint of Erestor taking a lover, sharing his life with another in any way.

And I am sure someone would have told me. Helpfully.

But Glorfindel – he is so damaged, so broken – he sees neither of us. He hears not the words we say to him – and what do I know of how Erestor phrases it? Nothing.

Only that his eyes say clearly – I love you – whatever the actions of his hands, or mouth, or – or whip.

Oh my sweet beloved.

You do not even know what it is you want – so how can either of us give it you?

 

 

 

It is a long while I sit before the fire, first weeping, then – then thinking.

The movement overhead ceases, and I – I am tempted to go up, to join him in that bed – not to touch, just to lie and hear his breathing, to know that he is here.

But I am afraid that if I slip into sleep, this will not be a good night for me – and I would not disturb him.

He needs to sleep to heal.

And I – I cannot bear the expression on his face which will say, clear as the words he does not speak – if only, Ecthelion, you would let me hurt you – you would never scream aloud at night again.

It is not true – he has only, one would think, to look at himself to know it – but he has ever been one to believe in what he wishes, not to see uncomfortable facts for what they are. 

Even if it were true, I would not do it. I know that much now. 

I do not want that pain, that – that mockery of sacred duty. I do not want to end these nightmares, won in honour – failure, but honour none the less – for peace bought with sacrifice of all that once was dear to me – that still is dear to me.

Sacrifice of my pride in myself, more, of my love for him, and his for me.

That love may be dying – dead – but I will not use its corpse as a healing balm for my own wounds.

 

 

 

I sit by the fire, watching as it burns down, and as the grey dawn light steals vibrancy from the last dying glow.

As the hours pass, I begin to fear I know what I must do – if I can only find the courage.

I was a hero, once. A lord, a warrior.

My courage may have been an illusion, but – I will cling to that illusion once more.

At last I begin to understand, as I should have so long ago. This love – this love of ours – a kind of love that we were taught was sin – it never was.

When we loved truly – it was good, and beyond good – it was all that we believed – wanted to believe. Our love – made us strong, and joyous, and we did indeed prize merit and honour the higher in wishing to earn each other’s praise. When he was watching, I fought better, sung sweeter, ran further – and he the same.

That we found pleasure in each other’s arms, the Valar no more cared than – than my parents did. We were happy, and we were valiant, honourable and true.

But this – this mess of lies, and longing, and pretence – this is wrong, and rotten to the heart of it.

This – this destroys the goodness that there was.

And even as my parents shy away from speaking to me of my life, even as they hide from the truth of me – even as the hideousness of our pretence hurts them – so the lies we tell, the sinful lust in our embraces hurts the Valar, and shames us both.

He lies, and lies, and hurts another – I pretend, and am wilfully blind, and lie – and when we – we touch, and kiss – it is not innocent, and joyous. It is more lies, more deceit, and now – yes, now it is a sin.

All these years, I have thought it was not, because here, in this land, with this mixture of elves from so many times and places – it is accepted. No-one asks questions.

But I should have known.

Now that I do – now I begin to understand – there must be truth.

I love him, my Glorfindel. I let myself think it, one more time, and then I take a deep breath, and rephrase it.

I love him – I love Glorfindel. But he is no longer mine. In my heart, I still feel that I am his – but he wants me no more.

We had a true love, a perfect love, once. 

I should not settle for less – nor should he – and I should not let him. I thought we were not – I thought – I have let myself believe, as I believed when he was not here, that we – we would find comfort in each other. That if things were not as they once were, if it was a different love, no longer the love of two young, brave warriors – that mattered not, it would still be a true love, a perfect love, even if we are no longer perfect – even if we know each other’s flaws. I thought – together we would find a way through the pain, through the regret, together we would build something – something good. But – we have not. In all the years, we have built nothing good, nothing but lies and pretence. He will not – cannot – give me all of him – and I – I am, it seems, not what he wants. I have tried to believe that – that my love is enough, that I am what he needs, that he will learn to turn to me. It is not true. 

I look at others, for we are not the only lovers who were separated for many years – and they seem to be still true. I do not know why we fail in this, what kind of elf I am that I failed to build something for him to come to, something he would find worthwhile. 

What kind of elf am I if I continue so to fail him, now that I see it clear?

Do not ask, what kind of elf is he if he can change so, do not let yourself think that, Ecthelion. He is as he is – perhaps the years with these strange elves, in a land I know of which I know nothing – perhaps that is the cause. It matters not.

If I care for him as I say I do – I need to end this, for he – he no longer has the courage.

Perhaps, I let myself think, perhaps one day – one day we will be able to be friends once more.

I do not truly believe it, but – life is long here. And it will seem longer.

Perhaps a little hope is needed.

I swallow hard, and tell myself that I do this not for me, for long I have known I would risk any punishment from the Valar to be at his side. I do this – I will do this – for him.

Surely – if he sins no more – if he lies not with one he does not love – if he withholds himself no more from the one for whom he now cares – do not shake, Ecthelion, face the truth, hold on, for Glorfindel you can do this – he will be able to find forgiveness and peace at last?

Would you not do that for him?

Would I not let him go, that he be – be free from this – this sickening horror? This desolation wherein he dwells, this place where only pain and mortification can reach him?

What of it that I will be alone once more?

What kind of elf am I, if I will not pay that price for him?

So many years of peace, so many years of knowing myself to have failed in the war for which we trained so long – so many years of regretting we had not stood together, had not fought and died side by side, shield to shield. So many years of thinking myself a coward, weak, without skill. Strange it seems to find now that – that I would rather a thousand times hear the horns of war blow, arm myself, ride out and fight, and die – I would, I find, I would rather die failing, than have to simply – end this that is all to me. 

Not all. There are other things, other elves even. I am not so lost to my own self that I would truly have this land burn, the children of my House die, merely to avoid this. 

I remember this house when I lived here alone – it was not so bad, I tell myself. I was busy – friends, music, horses, my family – all these things I can have. I can be alone again.

What of it that the nights will be long and cold and lonely once more? 

What of the hours I will spend sat here by the fire, drink in hand, as I try to remember that a nightmare is not real?

Hold your head high, Ecthelion, and dry your eyes. Would you not guard the gates of his dreams if you could? 

Let him lie in peace at the side of another, and stand watch once more, your final command a battalion of one, your armour long gone, your weapons but your own sense and trust in the love of the Valar.

I will have to change the gardens though.

I cannot bear to be surrounded by so many golden flowers.

And that studio – that studio I will burn.

 

 

 

But – maybe I will wait a little longer. Just a little.

To be sure.

Because – I love him so. 

And for an instant, I wonder – can elves fade here, here in these lands – and I shiver at the thought of returning to those dark Halls.

But – if I must, I will, an it make him safe and whole once more.

I failed him once. I will not again.


	18. Chapter 18

I wake, slowly, and there is that awful panic moment – my eyes – why is it dark – why can I not see – before I realise I have slept with them closed.

“You were tired,” he says, and I ease my grip on his hand as I blink, and look up at him. 

I move my mouth, slowly, and he smiles, and,

“Two days – two full days and nights asleep, five days – gone,” he looks away, and then turns back, “water. Here. I thought you would wake soon. Drink first, then come and eat.”

Sitting up is not easy, not without letting go of his hand and somehow – I do not want to lose contact. We make a mess, water on the covers, but – for once – he is not worrying about extra work for someone, he is smiling, and – and I lean against him, and drink, he holding the cup steady for me.

“Better?” he asks, and I nod, 

“You know,” I say, “you always know.” I close my eyes and lean back, only half listening, feeling the words vibrate through his chest as he says, quietly, 

“I should, by now.”

He spoke of food, of eating, but I – I want simply to stay here, floating, mindless and warm in his embrace.

I can feel the sun on me through the windows, I daresay there are birds and flowers, and so on out there, and in here – in here there is Ecthelion, and warmth, and comfort, and – and the smell of new-baked bread, the slight sound of busy servants keeping the house as it should be, ready for whatever we want, all ordered by him, since I am at a loss when faced with such things, and – and the feel of his arm around me, his body against mine, the scent of him – and – and without thinking, I turn into his embrace, and my hand comes up to his hair, his face, and I pull him down to kiss. 

For a moment, a strange moment, I think he is trying to resist, as he has not for many years, and I wonder if the door is ajar, or somesuch foolishness, but no – no, his mouth opens for me, and he is sweet and the taste of him is as much home as any of the rest of it. We kiss lazily, slowly, enjoying the feel, the knowledge of each other, the need I can taste in him, and I suppose he in me – and then, then I pull him down over me, twisting in the bed, and we know each other so well, our hands move easily to unlace, undo, move the covers aside. To touch and stroke, all the while our mouths locked together, all the while our eyes closed, for sight is not needed in this. So loving, so gentle he is with me – and I with him – as we often are to begin – and then, then we are moving harder, more urgently, and I – I shift under him, making it plain that I would have him inside me.

Still no words needed, no sight even, he moves to kiss my neck, and I – I take his fingers into my mouth, licking him, and before long he – he can touch me, ready me, and then – oh then the sweetest of all – he loves me so, and it is as it always was, all down the long years. He moves, and his hand is on me, and I hold him, and his face is against my neck, buried in my hair, while I – I can see and taste, and think only of him, of him, my Ecthelion, my beloved, my dear one.

And – for once – he does not roll away, he does not hide his eyes from me – he lets me see the shine in them, a mixture of pleasure and of tears – and he sees the same in mine.

Gently, he strokes over my face, and I smile, as best I can, my hand catching and holding his.

We lie in the sun a long while.

I think I sleep again, and when I wake, he is there, still, holding me.

I look up at him, and smile, and he smiles back.

I raise an eyebrow, and he, I know, remembers days – rare, but there were some – when we were not busy, had no duties to be done, and would spend hours like this – loving, sleeping, loving again.

“You need to eat,” he says, and he is right. He sighs, and stands up, turning away as he pulls on his clothes, and passes mine.

I follow him out of the room, back to the life that is now ours.

 

 

 

A life that seems somehow – easier – than it was. 

Ecthelion seems – relaxed. A tension I have been aware of for so long is missing – and I do not know why – I dare not ask.

He does not speak of anything much, makes no plans, does not try to persuade me to do – anything. 

I – I find for some reason there are no nightmares, no fear. I just – need to be with him. my Ecthelion. My dearest Ecthelion – and for the first time, I do not know why, there is no ache in me for another, only a slight sigh of regret for the sweetness of loss of control, of the sting and burn.

I know it is but a reprieve, I know the fear will come again, I know I will need to seek the only comfort there is for me soon enough. Something will happen, and I – I will be crawling before him, begging once again for order, discipline, pain – punishment and redemption.

Until then – I am content to live like this, my Ecthelion and I, quiet, among his plants, surrounded by the notes of his music. I even manage to paint a little.

He does not ask questions. He has a peaceful soul, my Ecthelion.

We simply – let the time pass.

 

 

Another festival – there are so many – one forgets all the reasons – but this one – this one I would not forget. 

It is a celebration – and why we celebrate I am not sure – a celebration of the founding of Gondolin. 

Ridiculous.

But – Ecthelion takes it for granted that we will go, and the way things are at the moment – the peaceful ease between us – I do not like to disappoint him.

It will not be so very bad, I think. 

His family will be there, true, and, worse, my parents; but it is a large Hall, there will be many others, some of them his – our – friends. Doubtless there will be music, and dancing, and food, and wine.

Not so very bad.

If it makes him happy, I daresay I can manage.

 

 

 

We do not have to wear our court clothes, or ceremonial armour – which is perhaps as well – but we are elves, we cannot help but take time and care with our appearance, and this is a Gondolin night. Formal hair, formal clothes, perfect, rich, for we are, after all, from the ruling Houses. 

In this land we are neither of us lords, not while our fathers are here to claim the titles, and there is a certain – enjoyment – being merely rich – what is the word – lordlings, I suppose – all the money, all the trappings, and none of the responsibility.

He, in his blues, and greens, and the silver hints of white foam, of crest of wave, of sparkling diamonds – looks – with his hair dark and high in combs upon his head – his eyes rimmed with some – I do not know what it is called, not being one to use it – but some dark substance making them larger and more inviting, more mysterious than ever – he looks – his lips just faintly outlined, and I smile to myself as I think what the elves of Elrond’s house would make of that – he looks truly the fairest of all the Noldor. Fairest of all, it seems to me.

My robes are not the colours of my house – I never liked them – and here, here where I am no longer a Lord, no longer the first warrior of my House – I do not wear them. I wear the blue I love, gold, yes, I wear gold, a little, but not the excess of it or the crimson background I should. I care not, I think as I dress, I will wear the colours which suit me, which I adore – and it is only when I catch a glimpse of us in the one of the great mirrors which line the ballroom, that I see we look as though we have dressed to set each other off, to highlight our partnership.

At such a formal occasion, Ecthelion is as much a guest as I – no question of one of the House of the Fountain performing as though for money among such company. All the same, I tell him, I rather wish he was – this flautist is nothing to him, and the singer – I am perhaps spoilt, I whisper in his ear, by all the years of living with better, and I stroke his hand. He smiles, and colours, and looks down, and then – then he steps away from me.

For a moment I wonder why, and then I remember – this is Gondolin. More, I find, as I follow the direction of his eyes, those are my parents, and they approach us.

In these lands, I have found, most do not question that we live together, unmarried, most accept the way things are. So many customs in this land, from so many elves, so many places, so many times – we were, it seems, unfortunate in this. Ecthelion’s family, at least, pretends approval – they always seemed unconcerned, I remember, never speaking of when he would marry. 

Lucky Ecthelion.

Before my parents reach us, he has moved to speak with another – and I have the dubious pleasure of making conversation with them unaided. 

We have nothing to say; at least, I have nothing to say that they wish to hear, and they – they are concerned only with appearances. It would not look right for us to ignore each other all evening – it seems to me it would look no less foolish than this stilted talk of weather, of where gowns were tailored, of music fashions, and the possibility of another royal wedding.

I try to concentrate, to speak as they expect, to do my duty by them, but I – I find the room becoming hot, the lights bright, and the music – the music begins to pulse in my ears, even as my father’s voice seems very close and very far away. He died, I remember, I saw him die also, and my mother – I heard her scream as she burnt. Her laughter, false and social, rings in my ears, and I – I am starting to shake, I know the signs, I know what will come soon. The lights are bright, too bright, but the shadows – I can see the darkness – and it will come, it will creep, and creep, and is no-one watching – watching for what will surely come? 

Ecthelion is not here.

I do not understand what they are saying to me now, I cannot hear them.

The noise is loud, too loud.

I tell myself it is just the beat of the dance, it is the stamp of feet in rhythm, in merrymaking, but I cannot believe it, I cannot be sure it is not the march of an army come to throw us down once more.

Ecthelion is not here.

I look across the room, and it seems, for a moment, as though I can see a shadow, a great dark shadow stretching out its hand, whip upraised, as though the lights will fall and all will burn.

I know it is not there, I know it is but my mind.

But I cannot breathe, the smoke, the flames, the screams are too loud.

Ecthelion is not here.

I am – I must – I have no weapon on me – and I – I do not know what to do. I reach out, looking for something – something to hold on to – and there is only open space behind me, and noise, and people moving.

“Glorfindel – are you listening to your mother, boy? Answer her!” 

I look at him, but he is dead, how can he be here, I saw him die, I heard her scream. I listened, father, I listened, and I could not answer, could not save her.

I am shaking, I try and tell myself this is not real, but I do not know what part of it is true, and what is not – if the ball is not real, then are the screams, the flames? 

Again I reach out, I think perhaps – if the screams are not real – then – can I touch my parents, know that they are real – but they recoil – they are not here – they died – how can they be here?

Ecthelion is not here. 

He is dead, and I am alone.

Alone among screaming and people running – moving so fast – and I see flames, and flames – are they real – is this real – I do not know – I reach out. 

It burns, and the pain is real, the heat, the feel of it is true, and I – I do not move away, it is real, in all this – here is something that is not illusion.

My mother screams, and I – I hear her scream and I cannot save her, can do nothing.

And then there is a voice, and an arm around me, and my hand – the flame is gone – was it ever there – I do not know – but Ecthelion – Ecthelion’s face is close to mine, and he is speaking.

“Look at me, Glorfindel, look at me. I am here. Look at me,” and I can do this, I can see him, I nod, and he half-smiles, and then he presses his forehead against mine, and he begins to sing, very low, and quiet, and I have to strain to hear him under all the noise – what noise – what is it – I do not know – it is loud, and there is shouting – but they are dead, I cannot – burning – the smell of burning flesh – but Ecthelion – Ecthelion’s song – I cannot quite hear.

“Look at me,” he says again, breaking off for a moment, and he smiles, and I – I love that smile, small and worried though it is; I cannot but try to smile back, and then he says, “come on, my golden flower, we are going to walk outside, out onto the balcony, and you are going to look, and see that all is well, there is nothing coming, nothing out there. I promise you,” I am shaking again, “keep looking at me, listen to my song. Nothing else,” and he begins to sing again.

I hold him, and I – I do not know what is real – only – Ecthelion – his song – it is not a song that any creature of the dark would sing, I think.

Slowly he starts to move, and I move with him, my eyes on his, and I – I am still shaking, but he is here, I am not alone. He will have a plan, he will have weapons for us, if he is here, it will not end as it did before, I will not leave him, I will not watch him die again.

Suddenly we are out, somehow, through a door, and onto a – a balcony – as he said – and it is cooler, but the noise – the noise is still there.

“There’s water on the table, two pitchers, glasses, and cloths – for his hand – I – Ecthelion, is he well?”

Even now, there is only one elf I know who would ask such a question at such a moment.

I feel rather than hear Ecthelion sigh, and he smiles at me again, but this is a real smile, this is the Ecthelion that makes me laugh with his comments as we wind home from a party,

“Yes, he is very well. It is all a performance to annoy his parents,” he says, and then hastily, “you fool, ‘moth, no, he is not well, and I should not have brought him had I realised. Thank you. Now go. Shut the doors, and the curtains.”

Egalmoth stifles a laugh, and goes,

“I will stand guard,” he calls back, “you will not want any courting lovers out there with you.”

Ecthelion does not dignify that with a response.

For a long time, we stand in the cool dark, the only sound his voice keeping up the quiet song.

Gradually, slowly, I loose my hold on him.

He stops singing, and I clutch once more.

He starts again.

I rest my head on his shoulder, and he holds me, his hands stroking over my back in the rhythm of his music.

I do not know how long we stand like that. 

His song winds down, and still we stand.

Then he speaks, very slow and quiet,

“I am going to let go of you in a moment. Sssh. So that I can wash your hand, cool it, bind it, where you burnt yourself. It is not bad, it will not take long. You can keep holding me. I am not going anywhere. Do you want me to sing more?”

I – how can I know – I do not know what I want – I – do not ask me – I cannot.

I am shaking again.

“Sssh,” he says once more, and he begins to sing.

As he said, it does not take long to wash and bind my hand. As he said, it is not a bad burn. 

As he did not say, I have had worse, and enjoyed every moment.

He kisses the bindings, and brings my hand up against his chest as he moves back that I may hold him more easily.

Again, slowly, he lets his song die into silence, and I rest against him.

“Look out there,” he says, “look my love, see, there is nothing, nothing coming, it is all quite safe.”

I nod, ashamed of myself.

He understands,

“Not that I am not grateful to you for getting us out of that dreadful room,” he says, his hands running through my hair, calming me, “too hot, appalling music, no space to dance, no-one I wish to partner, and the wine – terrible, my dear.”

I laugh, as he means me to.

Then I say, 

“But – why – why is it only me? Why do none of the rest of you – take like that?”

He shrugs.

“As well ask why is it Egalmoth has spent thousands of years chasing anything in a skirt, yet never married? Why do flowers grow? Why is it only you and I that loved, of all the warriors we knew? Why did my parents understand before I did – but yours still talk of the day you will marry? Why do birds sing as sweet as elves? Why is it your hair is long and golden, when no other in your House has such hair? Why is the sky as blue as your eyes, my dearest? Why – why anything. Because the Valar like it that way – or because they like something and the other balances it.”

He has a peaceful soul, my Ecthelion.

We stand there, silent, holding each other.

“I always hated such formal balls,” I say, and I wonder if I ever said that aloud before, “perhaps that is why.”

“I know,” he answers, and I think, of course you do, “I dare say it does not help.”

Silence again.

Silence and peace.

“I – I do not think I can walk through them all,” I say into his shoulder, quietly, ashamed of myself for being so ashamed, “can we just – stay here?”

He laughs, silently,

“Yes. Until well beyond daybreak, if you like. Or,” he leans to look, “we are only on the first floor, you know. I doubt the climb down is beyond us, when it is close to dawn and the light is better.”

It is a tempting thought.

“We had best tell Egalmoth if we do,” I say, “or he will be stood there guarding a deserted balcony.”

We both laugh this time, and then silence.

 

 

 

Later, much later, the stars have moved, and I have found my courage, and we have sat down, and drunk some water, and my hand aches, but it is not bad, and the night is passing but not yet gone, when he says,

“I am sorry, I should not have insisted we come – but – I wanted, just this once – to dance.”

I look at him, and then away,

“Go and dance then,” I say, jealous that he can think of it, jealous suddenly that he might dance with another, and I hear myself, and know myself to be cruel, “no, sorry, I did not mean that. I – you did not insist. I did not say I did not want to come – I quite thought I might enjoy it – the dressing up – you were not to know I would be like this – I was not so bad last time.”

“No,” he speaks quietly, and I have to strain to hear, “you were not. You – it does not get better, love, it gets – worse.”

I tense, thinking he is going to start the old argument again, that he will blame Erestor, but he does not. He simply sighs, and I – I do not know what to say. Instead, I reach out, I take his hand where it lies on the table, and we sit, holding on to what we still have.

“We danced at one of these affairs once,” I say, and I look at our hands, wound together, “do you remember, Ecthelion-mine, we danced once?”

His hand squeezes mine, and I know he remembers that night.

“We were alone on a balcony then,” I say, “well, we had to be, did we not? Gondolin being what it was. Things being as they were. But – the doors were open, though the closed drapes concealed us, and we – we danced. You and I, and it was perfect. We were so in love, so happy. It did not matter that we had to hide it, that no-one could know, that we danced out there, in the dark, not among the other couples, in the bright lights. It only mattered that we were together, you in my arms, your hands in my hair – it was not, I suppose, a very proper dance – but it was the only dance I ever had that meant anything to me.”

I stop, and swallow, the lump in my throat making speech impossible as I remember the night of which I speak, and how I loved him so, how he loved me, how all seemed perfect – how for that one night it did not matter that we were shut in, trapped in what already began to feel a doomed city; it did not matter that we had to hide, and lie, that there was no hope of change, that he worried we sinned, that I – I was no more perfect now than then – none of it mattered. I remember the heavy scent of – jasmine I think it was – I am no gardener, I leave such matters to my love – I remember the way he moved so slow, so sensual in my arms, I remember the sound of the music, the feather-softness of his hair against my cheek. I remember understanding all the poems, all the tales of love, I remember knowing I – I would do anything for him, fight any monster, dare any trial. I remember the diamonds on his clothes as they reflected back the stars – yet were not brighter than the love in his eyes.

Abruptly, he stands, and walks away, and I – I think he is impatient with my sentimentality, but he has walked to the door, and opens it – just a little – just enough that the music of the ball floats through.

I turn and look at him, and he – he holds out his arms to me,

“Dance with me,” he says, “dance with me one more time, Glorfindel, my own sweet love.”

Fools we are, I suppose, because in these changed times, in this land, we could walk back in, and dance before a thousand eyes, and none would have the right to reproach us. 

My parents would, but they would not have the right to do so.

But – I do not want to go back in to that noise, and brightness, I want to be out here, with Ecthelion in my arms, and he – he is warm, and his hair is soft and he smells as good as ever, and this – this is happiness, to dance with him, quietly, softly, in the dark.

We dance together for – I do not know how long. Until the music ends, and then, as he promised, we do not walk back through the staring, whispering crowd, we climb down the – what is it – wisteria perhaps – some such plant – and walk home, hand in hand, the stars dimmed, and the sun not yet risen.

We go to our room, and to bed, and we – we make love – and he is tender, and giving, his wide dark eyes bright as the stars. He takes me into him; he holds me, touches and strokes me, cries out, his voice so – so sweet, and loud, and unrestrained, as he never could restrain himself at such a moment. I feel – beautiful once more, strong and valiant – he makes me feel – heroic – again, and it is all it ever was, and afterwards we lie, wrapped together.

As I am drifting off to sleep, I feel him kiss my hair – my head is on his shoulder, his arm around me – and move softly away. I reach after him, and he – he relents, and stays where I can hold him.

“I love you,” he whispers, and the sorrow in his voice – I do not understand it – am I so very difficult – yes, I suppose I am. “I love you Glorfindel, always. Thank you for tonight.”

I should say something, but I am asleep, mostly.

 

 

When I wake – it is late, the sun is high in the sky – and there are only the quiet sounds of servants in the house.

I stretch lazily, and move, looking with all of me for my Ecthelion – and he is there, clothed, sitting quietly at the end of the bed, as I have woken to see him so many times. Seeing me move, he stands, and comes towards me, but he does not lean in and kiss, he simply touches my hair. 

I want to lean into the touch, arch and purr against him, but – his hand is gone almost before I know it.

“I – I am in need of – air,” he says, and I – I am, it seems, as deaf as I have been blind, for I hear only the words, nothing more, “when you are ready, there will be food waiting downstairs, it is a fine day. I daresay your horse could do with stretching his legs also.”

I smile, because yes, he is right, that would be good.

I do not ask – will you ride with me – and after, I wonder why not, and would anything have been different if I had.

He smiles back, and then turns away. With his hand on the door he stops, but he does not look at me, he lowers his head as though the catch is difficult and needs attention, as he says,

“I may be – gone – most of the day. Do not worry – I would not leave you alone after dark. I – take care, beloved.”

He waits a moment, but I – I do not speak, merely make a noise meaning ‘do not fuss over me’, and I roll over, searching once more for sleep.

I do not see him go.

 

 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ecthelion is described as the Lord of the Fountains, Glorfindel only as the Chief of the House of the Golden Flower (in my copy of Book of Lost Tales 2, anyway). Possibly unreasonably, I have decided to assume that Ecthelion's parents are dead by the time of the Fall of Gondolin, leaving him as the eldest of the House, but Glorfindel's father is simply - retired? not very warlike? a politician? - leaving him to lead their elves into battle, but not as the official Lord of the House.....
> 
> Glorfindel's delusions/hallucinations/visions are (partly) based on Siegfried Sassoon's accounts of coming home from WWI & seeing bodies from his memories/nightmares of the trenches in Piccadilly. Just in case anyone wondered.


	19. Chapter 19

I do not hear him approach, silent elf-warrior that he is.

I am busy.

A change in tone to the chickens’ commentary warns me that there is someone close, and I turn.

Of course, I think, of course, the perfect Ecthelion would choose a moment like this to appear.

I am not at my desk, I am not robed and formal.

I am standing, surrounded by chickens, hanging wet washing on a line.

“I am sorry,” he begins, “there was no answer at the door – I walked round,” he smiles, a social smile, “Master Erestor, this is not – I had never expected to see you so employed.”

I do not smile as I look up at his perfect face.

I shrug.

“Some of us are not of exalted birth,” I say.

He nods.

There is silence.

I continue with my work – the sun is shining, the wind is right for drying – these clothes must be dried, whatever else is to be said or done this day.

Let him speak first.

I like silence.

Halfway along the row, it occurs to me there is only one reason he could be here,

“If you have lost Glorfindel,” I say, and I see a movement from the edge of my eye, and know my guess is right, “there is no use looking here. I have not seen him for some months.”

I turn away, continuing to shake out and peg the clothes. I miss whatever he does, assuming as I do that he will steal away, on those silent feet, tracking down his errant knight.

Finished, I stop, and stretch, ready to turn back to go into the house, to find more work. Today is a day for cleaning, for baking, for suchlike household tasks – just as well, I think, I have not the concentration now for writing. Not after seeing perfect Ecthelion stood there, sneering down at me.

I spit, relieving my feelings.

“Is that for me, or for the chickens, or for nobility in general?” he asks.

Before I turn, I control my face, and hope that he sees only the mask I would show.

“A peasant custom of a later age, my lord,” I say, and I know he knows I lie.

He sighs.

“I am not here to ask for entrance to your house,” he says, “nor to ask you to break bread with me, nor offer me drink. But this – situation – has been going on – so many years. Too many years. Last night – I assume you have not heard of last night’s doings?”

He pauses, and I blink, and gently move my head – no. I have not heard.

I am not one that has friends bursting to tell me gossip, calling upon me early in the morning with such chatter.

“You will. There was a ball – a Gondolindrin – celebration – it does not matter. Enough to say – there were all the brightest, most glittering elves, and music, and dance, and – he was – he had one of his – attacks.”

Oh.

And you are telling me, why? I think.

“Have you met his parents?” he asks, and when I shake my head, “try not to. Has he spoken of them?”

I laugh, shortly, 

“He does not speak much at all when he is with me,” I say, and watch his shudder of distaste.

“No, I suppose not. I – do not tell me – I do not wish to hear. Anyway. They were there. I think they spoke to him – I know they did. It was in the middle of the conversation that he was – taken ill. They will not have understood.”

He looks away, and then softly,

“I was lucky. My parents were already dead – an accident – climbing, my brother, my sisters – with their children – they escaped. He – he saved them. But he heard his family die – saw it maybe. And that they were already estranged – makes it worse,” he shrugs, and looks back, “I am not come to speak of that. Just – be warned. They never liked me – they will like you less.”

The comparison seems odd.

My face must show my confusion.

He sighs again.

“He is getting worse, it seems to me. Would you agree with that?”

The question is rapped out with such force, I can only nod, and I see that this elegant gentleman is indeed an officer, the habit of command is such.

“Which implies that the situation as it stands is not helping, is not healing him. You do what seems right to you – I what seems right to me. He – he seems no longer to know what he wants, what is right. I – do you love him?”

There is no emotion in the tone, only impatience.

How can I say to this elf words I have never in my life spoken?

“Yes,” I whisper, looking now at my chickens. 

It must be nice to be a chicken. Easy.

He nods,

“Yes. He does not see it. He is blind to anything he does not expect. You will need to learn to say it, I think,” he holds himself tall, and looks away, and I can see him as he must have been, at the front of the charge, caring not for his own safety, “I do not pretend to understand an elf like you, from a different land, a different time; for me, for him, to lie – at all – even if not often – with another – with one we do not love – it is the deepest sin. I could not. It destroys him.”

“That is for him to decide,” I say, angered by the arrogance, the effrontery of this elf, here to warn me off, to claim it is for the good of Glorfindel that I – I withdraw the only solace he has.

Ecthelion shakes his head, and the sorrow on his face makes even me pity him,

“Glorfindel no longer understands himself. He is lost in this. I – I admit I had not realised how you live. I cannot imagine how you – find space for him here,” he holds up a hand, and the gesture is arrogant and all that I hate about him once more, “no, I do not wish to hear where you chain him, where you hurt him, or – or whatever else. Only – I had assumed I would have my house – but I do see now that is not possible. There is space enough in the grounds for your chickens. Only – oh I suppose the flowers are not important. I – I will go to my sister. Something can be arranged about – books and so on – later. But – I had thought to say, go and bring him here – now I find – I must say – go and – and join him.”

I am silent.

He seems to be saying – but he cannot be. Perfect Ecthelion would not allow vows to go broken, ignored. Ecthelion the warrior hero would not concede defeat.

I wait.

He turns away, his hand over his face, 

“For the love of Eru, must I say it? He no longer loves me, he wants you. So go to him – go to him in the house I built for us – go and be with him, do whatever he needs you to do – I cannot watch him fall further, knowing it is I that pushes him. He needs – he needs to be with the one he loves. Please, Erestor.”

There is silence.

“Please,” he says once more.

 

 

 

 

The arrogance of him, even now, takes my breath away.

My house, my home – dismissed.

Nothing.

My life – he knows nothing of my life – but he commands me to put it all aside.

To leave.

I am to – what? 

Pack up myself – or those few items he deems worth preserving – and go to – to live in a house which is not of my choosing, not of my earning.

To be, I have no doubt, mocked and sneered at by the servants whose loyalty will be to him.

To sleep in his bed.

To eat at his table.

To walk in his garden.

To work – except I do not think he knows I have work – in his study.

Am I also to wear his robes?

For the comfort of his Glorfindel – for the comfort of his own heart.

Not, I notice, because Glorfindel wishes me to, or because I wish to – but because the perfect lord Ecthelion wills it.

Perfect Ecthelion will not stoop to such – practices – as are needed for the healing of his lover – but just as he would hire a nurse, he thinks he can hire me.

I am silent.

I look at my home, and yes, it is small. It is a small house, for a single elf, for one who – who is content to be alone.

But it is mine.

It is the home for which I always longed, all through the years, through the wars, the times of fire, of peace but of work unending.

A home with a door I can shut, and none may enter save by my leave.

A home that I control, I order.

I look at him, and I realise – he has no idea what it is to be an elf with no home, no family, no control, with nothing.

I wait until the first impulsive desire to shout is passed, and I see that – by his lights – he is being generous. 

He is trying.

And so I answer him gently.

“No,” I say, “no indeed. He cannot be saved by either of us alone.”

As though he had screwed himself up to this pitch, and is now released, he sighs, and – a most unexpected sight – he reaches, half-blinded by – by tears – and who knew perfect Ecthelion could weep? – for the chair I keep out here, and sinks into it.

He looks incongruous there, in his beautifully tailored clothes – and I suppose these are but casual tunic and leggings, such as one wears when dressing hastily and dealing with – elves below one’s station – but any single item on him is worth more than all the garments I own – a hundred times more, I suspect, from the way they shimmer, and the colours flow, echoing the movement of water.

Yet, wearing these, he sits, head in hands, on the simple wooden chair where I sit to enjoy the sun, to shell peas, to hull strawberries in the season. 

“You may be right,” he says, and I raise my eyebrow at such a concession, but he does not see, and continues, “you may be right – but I do not know what else to do. And it seems plain to me that – that it is no longer me he loves.”

It must cost him a lot to say that.

To me, of all elves.

And a part of me would rejoice, and sing, and cry out with gladness – save that I do not believe it true.

Oh, I believe he thinks it.

But he is wrong.

That is the tragedy of it all.

For a long moment, I am tempted.

If I were to allow this, to agree, to say, no, I do not know what else there is, yes, let us try this, I am sorry it hurts you, but, my lord, I think you do the right thing. My lord, I will tend your gardens, I will have your books, your weapons, your instruments, conveyed to you, with the utmost care. My lord, I will adore your beloved, give him what you cannot, control his fears, make him – perhaps not well, but – better.

If I were to do this – then for a while – perhaps for many years – I, Erestor, would have things I have never before allowed myself to imagine.

Luxuries that seemed always beyond my grasp.

I, Erestor, that elf who was once a refugee, with nothing save my wit to live upon – I, Erestor, that elf who learnt the ways of pain, of control when there was no hope of love – I, Erestor, so long alone – I would have all the wealth of this mansion at my command.

I would have the one I have so longed for in my bed, night after night.

I might, perhaps, learn in time to speak words I – I cannot truly believe any say.

Words like – I love you.

I am here for you.

I will always love you.

Words like – I know you love me too.

But there would be a lie at the heart of it all. And one day – one day he would wake, and look at me, and know it.

One day, whatever happens, one day Glorfindel will leave me.

And on that day – better to have my own home to retreat into. Better not to be in the gaze of the world as I endeavour not to fall apart.

In the end, the temptation is not so very great.

“No,” I say again, and as he looks up at me, I hold his gaze and speak words long prepared, “no, you cannot imagine what to do. But I can. I have listened to him – I do not say you have not – but I – I have heard him speak for hours of Ecthelion. Of his true love, of the one who waits for him over the Sea. Of his most beautiful lord of the Fountains. Of years of happiness, of an understanding formed when the world was still young,” and I can see my words are like balm on an aching scar – oh Glorfindel, I think – did you never say this to him? – before I continue, “of the one he failed. The one he let die. That is what is at the root of this, that is the pain in him – failure.”

I watch his face as I continue,

“Failure. Failure for which he craves redemption. And when the nightmares come – pain, sharp pain to block out all the terror and the doubt, sweet pain that makes the world simple.”

He shivers, and I wait, letting the silence draw out.

“I – I did try,” he says, slowly, and the colour rises in his ears, “I did – once – he used that – thing – on me. But – when he wanted me to – I could not. I – pain is not love, not to me. I do not – cannot – I cannot do that.”

By the end, he is shaking, and I – even I – find I feel pity for him, lost in this world he does not understand.

Gently, I reach out, and touch his hair, ghosting past his ear, and the shake of fear becomes a shiver of – of something quite different.

“No,” I say, “and he should not have asked it. You are not one for such – such harshness,” and I let my finger trace his perfect eyebrow, run down the side of his face, and brush his lip, “if you were mine – ah, if you were mine, Ecthelion, I would not ask you to bear the whip, or the flames – you are not made for such. No indeed, you were made for gentler things, for soft silken bindings, were you not?”

For an instant he recoils, and I think I have erred, but then he closes his eyes, and breathes, and I continue, the warmth of the air leaving his mouth heating my hand, 

“Can you not imagine it, Ecthelion? You, naked – or near naked – your hands bound, and perhaps – perhaps we should find a silken scarf, silence that wonderful voice – and oh, how you would shake with fear, would you not, for you do, you fear the whip, you fear the flames, as I stood over you, ready to make you – mine. To command you, have you do as I willed. Reduce your world to a desire to please me, to earn my praise. No. I do not think I would even need to use the whip, to bring the flame close, so sweet you are. So very, very willing.”

He is shivering uncontrollably now, and I lower my voice further, making him lean in to hear, feeling the weight of his hair as it falls over my hand,

“Can you imagine it, Ecthelion? Your fear, your helplessness, your desire, my control – and then – for you are not one for pain – then your hero, your warrior – to come between you and the flames, the whip – is that not what you both want? Can you imagine that? To see him take the pain – the marks upon him – the love in his eyes as he bears what is meant for you – the joy in him as he feels the agony from which he saves you?”

I watch a tear make its way down his cheek, and I know he is picturing it.

“And after – when he has taken his punishment – would you not submit to him – still bound and helpless – but no longer afraid – would you not give your beloved all that you are? Would you then worship him, lick away the blood, cool the burns with your willing tongue? Pleasure him with your mouth – offer him your body to do with as he wishes? Allow him to take you, ride you, your face pressed to the ground, helpless before him in the truth of your heart, your hands still bound – and you would cry out in joy at his mastery. Will you not do this, Ecthelion, will you not allow Glorfindel his redemption, his chance to save you, to love you, to be the hero he believes you deserve?”

I wait.

Slowly he opens his eyes and looks up at me,

“Just once?” he asks, “you truly believe that – just once – would be enough?”

In honesty, I meet his eyes, and I shrug.

“No guarantees,” I say, “how can I know? But – he loves you – has always loved you – and thinks himself proved a failure by your death.”

I turn away, as though unconcerned, and walk towards the door,

“Go home, Ecthelion,” I say, “go home, and think about my words. And, when you have thought enough, and longed enough, and your conscience tells you Glorfindel has waited and suffered enough – come back to me, and we will do this together.”

I open the door, and look over my shoulder,

“Go home now,” I say again, “and do not come talking to me of what should be done, or what can be done – if you reject this, then know that it is your choice. But I – I will not come to your mansion, I will not live a lie to save you the pain of seeing his agony.”

As I turn once more, and go in to my kitchen, and shut the door, the look in his eyes stays with me – it is the look of a trapped creature, unsure what is done, or why, or whether it will ever be free again.

I daresay it echoes the look in my own.

 

 

 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And again, I need to break away from this for a bit, so there will be a pause before the next instalment. But there will be more. I wouldn't leave them there.
> 
> As always, comments appreciated.


	20. Chapter 20

I am shaking as I walk away from his house.

And what a house, I think, what a pitiful house. I was under the impression Erestor was a scholar, an educated elf, a valued retainer of the House of Elrond.

But then, I remember, if one were to ask any, they would say the same of – of Glorfindel. Not a scholar, of course, but a valued warrior, captain of warriors. Yet he seems to have acquired few possessions, amassed little wealth during those years. Perhaps that is in the nature of peredhel – what they have, they hold.

Really, though. Chickens. And hanging out one’s own washing.

And somewhere inside the unworthy thought cuts at me – is that – _that_ – better than I? _That_ offers more than I?

As though an elf can be judged by such things.

All the same.

To know that all I have done, and built, and offered he would throw aside to go and – and keep chickens.

Perhaps to live in a kennel beside the – the wretched things.

And I find I am biting my lip, and I must stop, here, where it is quiet, and I am now some distance from any track, any habitation, and sit, and with my head in my hands, I know not whether to laugh or cry at such a thought, such an image.

I know not whether to shudder with fear or outrage at the words he – that insolent cur – spoke to me.

How could he think I would ever, ever welcome his touch?

Submit – as he calls it – to him?

But within my anger, there is a quiet horror, a whisper that says – would you not? Truly, Ecthelion, is this the limit of your love? Is this what you will not do? Is this where you fail, where vows are put aside, resolves broken?

Yes.

Yes, this – this I cannot, will not do.

If Glorfindel wants this – then let him at least have the courage to speak himself.

And the quiet voice says – he tried. He tried, Ecthelion, and you would not listen.

_I tried_ , I think, _I tried._ Indeed I did – for I always understood that was what love is. That one should try – dare – anything.

I tried, and it near broke me – near broke my love.

So perhaps – perhaps I do not love him enough.

And yet – when I offer – to make this better – to leave – this other will not go to him.

I cannot leave him alone. Not when he has nightmares, not when the dark comes down.

I cannot leave him alone, screaming, afraid.

I love him too much for that.

But – this – game – of which Erestor spoke. Would that heal?

It would break me, it would end the dream I had of love renewed, that I know. But would it heal Glorfindel?

If it would, if I could know it would, then I – would I then grit my teeth, and bear it for him, knowing I would never need see either of them after?

Knowing I could not bear to see either of them after.

Knowing there would be nothing left for me after.

And the knowledge that whatever happens, whether I do this or not, whether he heals or not, there is no love left in him for me – it aches through me, and my heart twists.

Face it, Ecthelion, face it that you can continue to call yourself no coward; whatever honeyed words Erestor used, Glorfindel does not care for you as he once did. There is silence between you so often now, he does not reach out for comfort, for love, for simply the joy of touch as once he did. 

I bring my knees up to my chest, and I hold myself together, as I hear the words of that creature once more – “I have heard him speak for hours of Ecthelion. Of his true love, of the one who waits for him over the Sea. Of his most beautiful lord of the Fountains. Of years of happiness, of an understanding formed when the world was still young,” – and I wonder what I did so wrong, what was not as he hoped, expected, when he arrived. 

What kind of elf am I that I failed my love so?

What kind of elf am I that I turned his love to this – this indifference?

What did I do wrong?

Did he want me to run to him, to embrace him in front of all? To claim him with words, or touch, or – or kisses?

Did he not expect me to be – I do not know – different in some way? To have lived all these years without him, yet still have no interest, no habits formed that he could not change?

Or – and I am chilled again at this – is it that I was not different enough? That I still crave sweet affection, and words of – of tenderness – that I have not practiced these arts? Is it that I waited for him? I thought – it never occurred to me not – that because we loved, we would wait for each other, that such – touches – were only for lovers. But maybe that is what is wrong. Am I too much in love, too dependent? 

What kind of elf could be other than this? Is this not how elves love?

Yet somehow something has changed this elf who once talked of me for hours, who spoke of me as his true love – into the elf I live with now, who seems barely to know me, who can go for days hardly speaking, who even when we love – and perhaps that is no longer the word, but I have no other words for such things – even then, cannot look into my eyes, cannot speak as once he used.

What kind of elf am I that I have failed him so, and do not even understand how?

The thoughts go round in my head, over and over, I do not know how long I sit there, curled as I am, uncaring of the land around me, the waters, the birds. None of it matters to me, none of it do I see, or hear, lost as I am in the misery of love withdrawn, love lost.

Love broken beyond repair.

And I do not even know how I am at fault.

 

 

 

Something finally makes me sit up, and I look around, still uncaring of the beauty of this land, still ungrateful, and perhaps that is part of my failings, perhaps I do not appreciate the gifts of the Valar as I should – I did not appreciate love when I had it – I feared it was sin, I agreed to conceal it – I left him – and the pain of it once more – I left him, in trying to save him I left him alone, and I failed him.

But now – now the sun is well past its height. It is not yet sinking, I need not yet fear for him alone, but – I had best be going to him.

I smile slightly at the thought of how he is so well-known for his love of parties, and music, and revelry. A way to get through the hours of darkness, to drive away the terrors, to keep the night at bay a while.

Oh Glorfindel – no longer my Glorfindel – I love you so, and yet I have failed you so often, and so much. I will not fail in this at least. I said you would not be alone tonight, and you shall not.

I suppose Erestor hopes that by refusing my first time of asking, he will – what? Force me to play his games? Or to go on bended knee to him once more – twice more – how many times will he demand it – to beg him to care for the one I love? Does he want me to – I do not know – is there some Imladrian custom where I should formally break us, declare myself forsworn?

I cringe at the thought – but – will I let my pride stop me?

I do not know.

 

 

 

I walk, slowly, all the energy and determination is gone from me, home.

If it is still home.

 

 

 

Again I ask myself – what now? 

My love does not heal Glorfindel – that is plain after all these years – and neither is he content with me.

He has not suggested those dark games again. I do not know if he even wants that of me now.

As for Erestor’s words – the scene he built in my mind is there, and clear, and it terrifies me. I do not want this – I can think of few things I want less. I feel no – what is the word that mortals use – desire – that is it – I feel no desire for him, just as I feel no affection for him.

I pity him, I do, for I saw his face as he spoke of Glorfindel, and I know he loves, just as I do.

Not quite as I do.

But, even pitying him, even understanding a little of what is in him – I do not wish to touch him, to have him touch me – in any way.

As for that picture he painted – I shudder again. I have seen my love – my dearest – my warrior – does that creature, that insolent cur, think I have no idea what he does to him? Does he think I have not washed away blood, not soothed burns, not offered the comfort of my body before now?

Does he truly know nothing of how lovers are that he might think I have not seen the hurts, have not offered every comfort I know?

What kind of lover does he think I am?

I have washed blood – his own, and that of our foes – from the body of my golden one more times than I can count. 

I have seen him marked with true wounds, true battle-cuts, I have watched him fight on, red with blood, and seen him kill still unnumbered enemies.

I trained with him for centuries – and not always did we blunt our blades for fear of being unready when the day for true war came.

I fought beside him in truth in raids and skirmishes.

I was at his side at the Nirnaeth, and for months after.

No, scribe, I know what his body looks like when it is hurt and bleeding, I know the marks set there by battle, now long healed, better than you ever will.

Do not speak to me of this play of pain, this play of comfort.

You know nothing of warfare if you think this is comparable.

This – which you do – is not honourable combat. This is – a sickening parody of all that makes valour glorious.

And I will not participate.

I will not crawl for your delight.

I am Ecthelion, once Lord of the Fountains, and I will hold onto that, whatever else I may lose.

 

 

 

Heartened by such thoughts, I enter my home.

I hear his voice, laughing, and I smile.

Then I hear the words.

“ – ah, I could wish Ecthelion had some of his skills, some of his tricks. But there, he has waited too long, I have been unkind over this – you are right. Enough of it – I had thought as much – my way is clear enough in truth. There is only one elf in my heart, and it must be done, though I like not the thought of hurting either, any more than the thought of breaking my given word.”

Words which bring all tumbling about my ears.

So.

That is the way of it.

But even now, even now, even at this moment, I have my pride, and I hold myself straight, my face unchanged, as I walk into the room where my – not ‘my’ – forget that word, Ecthelion – where Glorfindel sits, laughing once again with those whom I have thought my friends, with Egalmoth, with Rog.

He speaks like this to those my friends, those whose opinion matters to me, whose pity is most cruel, whose laughter most unkind.

Will he leave me nothing?

But they are generous; they smile, and speak of being relieved to see us whole, that they had wondered how we fared after leaving so precipitously last night. And I must pretend I did not hear those words, do not know my fate, am not aching and hurt, suffering a wound worse than any other could inflict.

They leave soon enough, Egalmoth talking of some fair lady he hopes to meet with again, Rog clapping me on the shoulder in a show, I think, of silent support. 

Of all those least likely to accept us, Rog was the one whose good opinion I dreaded most to lose – yet he seems to care little. Over the years he has made it clear without the need of words that he would still rely on us in battle, still hope for our shields beside his. 

I meet his eyes as he holds me a moment, and he nods, approvingly,

“Good singing yester-eve,” he says, and I nod, grateful for his praise.

They leave, and I – I find I am a coward now after all.

“I have no hunger this evening,” I say, “I would walk in the garden, I will not go far should you call, but I will return before dark,” and I turn away, leaving Glorfindel to follow or not as he chooses.

I walk.

Walk, and think.

Walk and know that for all my words, for all my resolve – for all my love and care – these will be mine own once more, this solitude my piteous state.

He wants this other, as I guessed. 

This afternoon was but a short reprieve.

He wishes I had skills and tricks I do not know.

Not because – and this was clear – not because he would then love me still, but simply for his own amusement.

Or perhaps – and the quiet whispering voice is back – perhaps because he thinks it would ease his suffering, as that creature – no, be generous and honourable in defeat, Ecthelion – as Erestor suggested.

Maybe it would.

But I will not do it. 

And if he were himself, he would not ask it, for ever our honour was more to us than life or comfort – his honour as dear to me as mine own, mine to him also. 

If he were himself, he would not cast aside his own honour for this – I cannot stop him, try though I have – but I will not let him draw me in. This is not healing, this is folly and dishonour, and a mockery of all that is good.

And though I lose everything else that I hold dear, I will not lose my self-respect, I will not crawl and beg and whimper, I will not lay down my pride, my honour, my name.

What kind of elf am I?

I am Ecthelion, once Lord of the Fountains, musician and warrior.

I am he who once held the love of Glorfindel of the Golden Flower, and I will not dishonour that love, nor besmirch those shining elves of valour whom once we were.

Whatever the cost.


	21. Chapter 21

I watch Rog and Egalmoth walk away, arguing as ever, Egalmoth loud, his hands gesturing as he emphasises each word, Rog simply striding along shaking his head, his monosyllabic ‘No’ plain to hear as he disagrees on principle – and I smile, envying them their simplicity, their content.

I sigh, for the days when we were simple, content with each other – and then I stretch myself and stand tall.

I cannot make those days come again, but I can make things better, simpler, than they now are.

I slept late this day, and I thought much as I wandered in the dream-world, ever aching for company at my side.

I thought much as I sat alone and found this house, these gardens, no home to me without him.

I thought much as I tried, once more to paint, and found the colours blur with none to tell of their shades.

Now, as I told our friends – and for the first time they seemed my friends also – I am come to a decision; I see my path, laid before my feet as it has been all this time. 

It remains only for me to gird myself and set out.

For now, I go into the gardens, searching out Ecthelion. I know where he will be at this hour, where he always likes to sit when the sun is low.

Watching his water, his fish, thinking – I do not know what he thinks.

I sit beside him, and he – he does not turn to look, he simply leans a little close, still staring at the water.

“It was good to see them, we do not spend much time with those we used to know,” I say, and then, lest he think I rebuke him, “I’m sorry. But I do begin to see that I have been mistaken in trying to hide from who we were – from those who fell that day, and those who survived.”

He shrugs a little, and then,

“You have heard them spoken of as dead heroes for so long – it must be strange,” he pauses and then, voice not faltering, for he has perfect control over tone and pitch, “strange for all of you, but especially for you, to come here, and suddenly be expected to be in love with one of us.”

He laughs, slightly, I laugh also, and for the first time it occurs to me how similar he and Erestor are, their biting commentary so different to my own outlook. Different, they are so very different, and yet – they could perhaps have learnt to appreciate each other had I – had I lived a different course.

We do not speak again, watching the sun fall away into crimson, the moon rise, and the stars wheel above us.

At least, I am watching.

He is watching the reflections and patterns in the water, the colour changes of the droplets, the ripples moving ceaselessly.

After a time he says, quietly, 

“I do not wish to walk in dreams tonight – I would find neither rest nor comfort.”

One of those nights.

I close my eyes a moment, aching with the pity of it all, and then I offer,

“There is no peace in that house when I know you are gone. I will stay here also – it looks to be a fine night. Many were the nights on campaign, I think, when we would have been grateful for such weather.”

He sighs, and such a sigh, pulled up from the depths of him, as he says, very quiet and low, his voice controlled by an effort I do not understand,

“Yet we were happy then, were we not? For all the – the lies, the deceit we practiced – we were happy then. It was as I remember?”

And oh Ecthelion, yes it was, and more than happy we were, and why have I not the words, the wit to say it?

Instead I manage only,

“How can I know what you remember? I wish now that we had not been so cautious – perhaps if we had not, many things would have been changed.”

I mean only – that had we been more open, perhaps our city would have learnt to forgive, to accept our love.

But afterwards I realise that is not what he hears.

We sit there the night through, and to me it seems like peace, like the contentment of a long-married couple.

Fool that I am.


	22. Chapter 22

I hear footsteps approach the house as I am in my study. 

The perfect Ecthelion is back already, I think.

Not so perfect then.

Just like all the rest.

No servants here – I open the door, and wait, eyebrow questioning, as he searches for the words. He cannot look at me, and I wait to hear his request, wait for him to speak.

 

 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now I have a computer problem, may have to rewrite the whole rest of this story - and it was difficult enough once. So, apologies, there will be another pause....


	23. Chapter 23

I watch Glorfindel, and I wait for him to find the words.

Then I understand, and I know he will not be able to ask it.

So. 

The perfect Ecthelion would not even come to me and say it, but yes, he wants what I described.

Admits he wants it, or tells himself only that he does it for the sake of the one he loves?

I do not, cannot know.

But I have my suspicions.

I take Glorfindel’s hand, and I draw him close.

“This will heal you,” I say, for I believe it. I do not say, and you will see your perfect Ecthelion is an elf like any other, with the needs and desires of any other, no better than all the rest.

I am not proud to be so learned in these matters.

I never wanted to learn such things.

“Take my hand,” I say, “and imagine, as the sun sinks, the red light staining the ground, that we stand and watch as Ecthelion, obedient to the gesture of command you know so well, kicks off his boots, removes his tunic and shirt, unbinds his hair, and kneels.

“Watch as he holds out his hands, and allows me to bind them.

“Watch him pull against the bindings, flexing every muscle in arm and chest, and so beautiful he is, so very beautiful – and the bindings hold him captive, helpless.

“Watch as I tie a band of silk across his mouth, carefully freeing his hair, taking the power of speech from him, yet leaving us able to hear his screams, his cries, when they come.

“Watch Ecthelion submit, even as he shudders at the touch of the hands of another on his hair, and know a desire you had not even begun to admit existed is kindled and leaping inside you, until you also are aflame.

“Watch as I light candles, and place them carefully at intervals along the ground.

“Watch as I raise the whip, as I sweep it slow and careful, caressing Ecthelion’s back and shoulders.

“Watch as Ecthelion shudders again, and the whip cracks.

“This time the whip travels over his chest, still slow and careful, still gentle, but the threat is there, the threat of pain, and you stare, held there, watching, wanting.

“Wanting to see the blood run, wanting to see Ecthelion, your sweet Ecthelion, cry out in surrender, cry out in need. Helpless. You want to see him brought low, watch the flames, see the burns form on his skin.

“You want to hold him after.

“You want to comfort him.

“You want him to understand.

“You love him, and only him, always and forever him, you need him to do this for you, give you this.

“Watch as I bring the first candle close, as Ecthelion shakes, and he cannot free himself, he has submitted to this, and now – now he will learn what truth, what beauty there is in this – this that he has called a dark and terrible game, sordid and degrading.”

But Glorfindel is shaking his head, and speaking words that make no sense to me.

 

He speaks of vows made long ago.

He speaks of promises that matter more than his own comfort.

He speaks of honour.

He speaks, low and unable to look at me, of love, of patience.

He speaks of loyalty.

 

I cannot answer.

 

He speaks of this ball, this celebration. 

He speaks of seeing fire, hearing screams, of terror.

He speaks of song, of being called home, of safety.

He speaks of knowing his own mind, his own heart.

 

I cannot answer.

 

He speaks of releasing me.

He speaks of letting me live for myself.

He speaks of my finding one to love, and to love me.

 

There are not words for the desolation I feel.

 

But I show it not.

I nod.

I say I understand.

That I know the lord Ecthelion to be a most honourable elf.

 

He waits, and I do not know what it is he wants from me.

He waits.

Then I see.

He wants me to tell him that all is well, that we will be friends once more, that none of it matters.

I cannot.

And so I too fail him.

I retreat into my carefully-built protective shell.

Behind my walls of steel, so long guarded, my gates of adamant, once so foolishly thrown wide that he might enter, I hide my heart once more.

As I learnt long ago.

I ask if there is more he would say. 

There is not.

 

He goes.

 

I watch him until I can no longer see the brightness of his hair.

I close the door.

I do not weep.

I do not scream.

I stand in silence, head hanging, my arms holding myself tight, as no other ever has, nor wished to do.


	24. Chapter 24

Ecthelion has been out again today, I know not where. Wandering the countryside I suppose, looking perhaps for music. I took advantage of his absence; I did what had to be done.

When he returns, I ask where he has been, and he for a moment looks at me as though he does not understand the words I speak.

“You used to walk often, and say that you longed to have freedom, to be no longer hemmed in by mountains, forced to stay within prescribed bounds,” I say, and I smile, remembering how he used to fret, to speak of lands he feared he would never see, “maybe – have you travelled much in this land? Would you like to do so? I – I was going to say in the spring might be a good time to travel, but there is no spring here – how long does it take to become used to living without seasons?”

And now I do not know what I have said, his face freezes, and then he half-nods, agrees that maybe he should travel, and he turns away.

“Ecthelion,” I try again, and he tenses, “we – there was something I wanted to say, something I need to speak of with you. Please – I do not wish to pain you, but we – I – need to tell you –“

He shakes his head,

“Not today,” he says, tension in his voice, “please, please Glorfindel. Walk with me tonight, and then – tomorrow you can say whatever you will.”

“I –“ I begin, because – I wanted to tell you I will try harder. I do not wish to be without you, I need you, I need you to bring me home, balance me, calm me, drive the nightmares from me.

You cannot make all well – I cannot make all your hurt forgot – but your song was real, it was true, and I found my way home through the pain, the flames, the screams. You held me, you caught me as I fell.

It is not that bliss of pain triumphant, pain rejoicing that Erestor taught me – it is more difficult, so much more difficult, to accept the pain, accept the fear, the hurt, the break inside and still to carry on, to walk head held high despite it all.

But I find, in the end, if I have your hand to cling to, your arm to support me, your shield locked with mine – I had rather that.

At least with you, I know who I am.

Erestor – was hard to read when I spoke to him. I think he understood. He may even be delighted – more and more I have begun to feel he does not really like the – the release – he gives me. He does not really approve of my need – kind though he is – and I suppose he will perhaps now be able to seek out the one he loves.

He told me once that there was someone. Someone to whom he had never lied, and would never, someone he would not deceive nor would he withhold himself from this – elf.

He meant it as rebuke, long before we sailed, when once I said I did not know how I could possibly speak to Ecthelion of – of nights spent with others there, over the Sea. I did not know how I could be honest, I thought a lie might be kinder.

Maybe it would have been.

Another layer of guilt, that in seeking to earn Erestor’s approval, in seeking to ease my own conscience, I pained my Ecthelion more, failed to protect him once again.

But now – now I think Erestor will be pleased. I have thought, and – finally – I begin to see – for all I crave the things he gives, the pain, the ease from control, the blissful reassurance that I live, that all is not lost – the more he gives, the more I want.

There will never be an end to it.

Once, once it was enough to merely speak words, and feel a pale shadow of that agony.

Now – now every time I am desperate for more, make it last longer, the blows harder, the flames hotter; every time I beg him for more pain, more of it, make it last longer, take me out of myself.

I see the look in his eye afterwards, and I am shamed.

He is shamed by my desire – I will no longer call it need.

He has given and given to me, and yet – it is all in the name of friendship, there is nothing more between us.

There have been times when I wished there could be, but now – now I come to understand, Erestor loves another, and I – I have lost so much honour – but I am not yet forsworn. Perhaps, if I can let him go, let him seek out this other, then I can learn to be – not content, I doubt that, but – I have not the word – resigned perhaps.

Maybe Ecthelion and I can find some shelter together.

I do not hope for love, not really, not anymore, not in the way two young elves, innocent of so much, once loved. I do not hope for that joy, that giddy happiness, that golden glory of our youth, but perhaps – perhaps we can take care of each other, find a sort of peace together.

I keep remembering the way he sang, and drove away the dark, the flames; I remember dancing with him, and loving, and – if it cannot be like that every day, every night, perhaps it can be often enough to make the other times forgot.

I do not know.

But I owe it to them both – to Ecthelion whom I have hurt, and to Erestor whose life I have disrupted for so long – to try.

I wanted to try and say this to Ecthelion. I wanted to say I am sorry. I wanted to ask him to forgive me. I wanted to thank him that he has let me come through this in my own time. 

But he does not want to talk just now.

Instead we walk, and I do not wonder at where he leads me, I do not even realise, as we take paths I do not know, climb gradually, until we are out on the hillside, overlooking his land – our land – and beautiful it is, his gardens a true achievement, his house an adornment of the landscape. Then I turn and look at him, and wonder why he has brought me here, and I see something like tears in his eyes as he looks out,

“It is lovely, is it not?” he asks, but before I can reply, he goes on, “I used to stand here, and dream of you, I built it all for you – for us – I loved – still love – you so.”

I hold his hand, and he holds me.

We look out over the gardens, the house, and beyond, over this beautiful land.

We watch the sun sink, knowing the dark will come, and the nightmares, and the fear.

I hold onto him, he to me.

And very quietly, he begins to sing.


	25. Chapter 25

Almost it is as I dreamed, as I thought so often all those long years.

He, sat beside me, his hand in mine.

My glorious Glorfindel and I, our house, our home, our lands.

The sun sinking.

The night coming on.

Both of us afraid, both of us dreading the terrors that stalk us.

Why tonight particularly – I do not know. I only know I can feel that heaviness in the air, that light-headed awareness that presages them.

Still.

We are together.

I never hoped for perfection.

 

 

There is movement, unexpected, far-off.

A direction I try not to look.

For a long moment I watch.

Then I make myself speak.

“Glorfindel,” I say, and I hesitate, but – this is odd, and for all I know little of the elf, it seems out of character, “Glorfindel, it is late, it is the hour of prowling foxes. Yet – there are chickens moving – I – would you know – is all well with Erestor this day?”

He looks sharply at me, and then follows my gaze.


	26. Chapter 26

Time passes.

 

I go to my study.

I make all tidy.

There are some letters to be dealt with, some small matters which need attending.

There is nothing else of importance here.

I do not let myself dwell on days gone by, days when from my desk I could hear the shouts of the training yard.

Days of splendour, of anticipation.

Days of longing. 

 

 

I put the letters to one side, then think better of it, and take them, place them in the stone jar at the roadside.

They will be collected, sooner or later.

I remember my chickens, and I go to release them.

 

 

I return to my study.

I seek out the book of love-poetry I once bought.

I read it again.

And I understand none of it.

 

 

It seems to me that it – and all such words – are lies.

There is no truth, no colour in any of it.

 

No warmth in this world.

I am cold.

And alone.

 

 

I think of the nightmares, the terrors he used to suffer – still does suffer, I daresay.

I wonder what it is like to be surrounded by flames.

To battle an enemy in such a way.

To build friendships.

To love.

To be loved.

To be loved so very much.

 

 

I am cold.

I light the fire.

But it seems I am not concentrating correctly.

I suppose I am distracted.

I must have been unlike myself earlier also. There are papers everywhere it seems.

The fire catches them, and I find I cannot bring myself to care.

Erestor, not to care for documents.

What is the matter with me, I wonder, as though from a great distance.

I simply – do not care.

 

 

 

I watch the flames rise.

I remember the house is wood.

My house.

My own house, of which I was so proud.

Only somehow – I do not now care.

None of it matters anymore.

I do not want more of this – this coldness, this loneliness.

These lies.

This desolation.

Or whatever else – whoever else – will come, wanting something from me.

They always want something.

Always the same things.

And I am tired.

And cold.

I would be warm, I would be held and comforted.

But none will offer it.

The flames rise, and I wonder if they can warm me at last.


	27. Chapter 27

For a long moment, I think Ecthelion is mistaken, is speaking obscurely.

But no.

There are indeed chickens milling pathetically.

And then I see – we see – the flames.


	28. Chapter 28

I do not like him.

But I – no more than any other – can watch this.

I turn my head away.

And I see Glorfindel.

He has forgotten me.

He stares, rapt, as though he is close enough to feel the heat, blister in the devastating roar.

As though he thinks to run, to change the course, to change another’s fate, he stands.

I see the tears run down.

And when I reach out – he does not even know I am there.


	29. Chapter 29

There is no use in moving, no help to be given that those nearby cannot give.

We watch as the roof falls in.

As the bystanders pass buckets.

As the chickens disappear into the night – to perish at the will of those more daring, those creatures to whom the Valar gave power and skill.

As those whom I know – my erstwhile lord, his sons, among them – carry out the body.

So small he looks.

So – lost.

Forsaken.

And I know guilt once more.


	30. Chapter 30

I feel no triumph.

I watch my love suffer, and I know shame once more.

I failed to protect him.

I did not force that other to see, I did not speak clearly enough of what I knew, of how Glorfindel longed for him.

I was afraid.

Afraid of loneliness.

I clung to a hope, a desperate hope, that all might yet be well.

I did not let Glorfindel speak, I did not release him.

I clung on for one more night, one more, as though that would change anything.

And it did.

His Erestor died.

I do not know whether he meant it, whether it was mischance.

None can know.

I do not know what words Elrond Peredhel spoke to Glorfindel, but I know he blames himself.

I should confess.

But if I do, he will have to leave me.

And be alone.

Alone when the terrors come, when the darkness surrounds him, when the shadows and flames leap and rise.

Alone, to scream and be not heard.

That I cannot do.

And so I find I have, after all, lost my honour, my pride.

I cannot own my misdeed.

All that I was once proud to be, is forsaken.


	31. Chapter 31

It is late, and the night grows cold.

Snow lies on the ground about me.

I care not.

The moon has risen, the stars are hidden by its light.

Another day over, another night begun.

Another day with no chance to make amends, no chance to tell Erestor I am sorry, I did not mean – any of it.

I never knew.

He never told me.

No-one told me.

Now, now I have had Elrond, and his sons, and his wife, and his minstrel, and his grooms, and all the knights of his House, and – and every elf who ever went to Imladris, every elf who ever spoke to Erestor it seems – all of them tell me. All of them say – how did you not know, Glorfindel?

How did you not see the love in his eyes when he looked at you?

How did you not hear the love in his words when he spoke to you?

Some of them even say – how did you not feel the love in his hands when he touched you?

And I – I have no answer.

Except – I did not know.

I was blind, deaf, insensate.

So wrapped in my own anguish, I never saw his.

Could I have – done anything different?

I do not know.

If I had – would it now be the elves who care for Ecthelion coming to me? Our friends?

I do not know.

I – I think not. 

I do not know what Ecthelion would have done, but not that.

Ecthelion is – I have not the words.

Not one to do that, I think.

Erestor – oh Erestor – you were always so strong, so controlled.

So it seemed.

Now – now I know things you never told me – I never asked.

Now – now I see what I did to you.

How I was simply another to take, and take from you, and never offer any of the love you were crying out for, had I only had the wit to hear it.

Our Lord spoke to me in anger, in distress, and I – I could only look at him in horror, and disbelief, and – and why did you never tell me before? 

Then indeed he showed me his wisdom.

“Would it have changed anything?” he asked, and yes, yes it would, of course it would, I – I would never have used him, hurt him so.

He nodded.

“So, you would have taken even those brief moments of happiness from him?”

And I had no answer.

Because – yes.

Had I known – I would have never taken what he offered, knowing myself already bound.

 

 

My thoughts end here, as they always do.

Had I acted differently – I can see no way I would now be without blame.

Had I gone to Erestor that day, offered love, offered everything for which he longed – it would have been a lie.

I knew that. 

I love Ecthelion.

Always have, always will.

He is the other part of me. The music to my dance, the spear to my sword, the shield to my back, as I the shield to his.

I have known him since – since forever. There is no moment in which I met him, no moment in which I came to know him. 

I thought once that which we had, that which bound us together, was ended.

I came to see that could never happen. As well say I wish no longer to be Glorfindel – and there have been moments when I wished that – but it cannot be. 

And I no longer wish it, no longer wonder if that would be a better life. 

It would not.

He is the other part of me, I love him, need him, am bound to him, as he to me.

Only – I have hurt him so very much over the years – there is so much for which I must try to make amends.

I do try.

I walk softly near him, I am gentle, and quiet, and – and as though he were injured, for I fear I nearly broke his heart.

He sees my sorrow, and my guilt, for what I did to both of them, and he understands, I think, as he has always tried to understand.

One day, one day, I hope, we will speak of it all.

For now – the affection without words has to be enough.

Whenever I come home, he is there, and when he wakes afraid, I am there.

Whenever he comes home, I am there, and when I wake afraid, he is there.

We do not speak much, our loving is quiet, and not as it once was, no blaze of glory, no sound of triumphant song.

More often do we wake to sit, and hold each other against the fear, the nightmares, the terror, than do we wake to make the night ring with our cries of passion.

More often do we stare into the fire, and drink his harmless remedy of milk, than stare into each others’ eyes and love.

But – we are still here, still holding on.

It is not perfection.

There is an ache in each of us that will not go away.

Yet – we are elves. We have forever.

Vows were made, and stretched, yet not quite broken.

 

 

I will go home now, to his house, his land, his arms, and hope the Valar have heard my plea, that they may grant Erestor peace.

The peace that Ecthelion and I still cannot find.


	32. Chapter 32

It is late.

He comes in, and I – I do not look up.

I have learnt not to – he reads a rebuke in my glance even when I mean it not.

He does not see my worry, my love.

I do not think he really sees me at all.

“There is a bath run,” I say, eyes on my book, “and towels, a clean nightshirt. There was food and drink left for you – I can ring for them to be brought if you will.”

Please, eat, drink. Take care of yourself.

He shrugs, and strips ready to wash.

I suppose I should rejoice that he can now strip before me, that there are no shameful marks.

I hear him lower himself into the water, and sigh.

I close my eyes, I shut my mouth on the bitter words, I lean back that the tears not seep out, for I know how we came to this.

So far from what we once were so proud to be.

It is my fault, that I did not let him speak.

That I clung on for one more day, one more day.

And in that day – he lost his love, his new love, the one he had finally found the courage to admit was his heart’s desire.

Now, in my weakness, to my shame, I cannot find the words to say – leave me. Do what must be done that you can be with him once more.

In his weakness, to his shame, he cannot do so without my urging.

We are not who we were, no longer are we young and hopeful, no longer are we joyous. We are tired, marked and scarred by our lives and deaths.

Yet still – I love him, and I believe he loves me, in a way.

I hear him dry himself, and for an instant I debate going to him, for sometimes – sometimes such moments can still lead to affection given and offered.

Tonight – I do not want to see the pain in his eyes as he looks at me, and knows I am not another.

I put down my book, I turn away in pretence of rest.

He knows me so well – when he joins me, lying on his side also, he touches my hip gently, his hand lying still where once, long, long ago, he would have grasped and pulled, loved me, desired me.

Softly he says,

“I love you, Ecthelion.”

Pretence abandoned, I reach for his hand, holding him tight and close, and answer him, as I always have, always will,

“I love you, my Golden Flower,” and I hope he cannot hear the tears in my voice, even as he moves against me, closer, needful, burying himself in me – and I wonder if his eyes are open, if he sees me at all.

If he will ever again truly love me.

If I can ever again truly deserve it.

Or if we have forsaken all such joy, and are left clinging in the ashes of our ruin.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Some Sort of Peace](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4449044) by [Wynja2007](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wynja2007/pseuds/Wynja2007)




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